Alfred the Great Prince of Wessex
by ginger30705
Summary: In the 9th century, the last great Viking army attacked Britain, subduing kingdoms quickly with brutal force until only one kingdom remained. The unlikely inheritor of that throne, the fifth son who had planned a life in the church, becomes the only man standing between the Viking raiders and the completion of their conquest. This is the story of how Alfred became The Great.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi, my name is VR Davies and I'm sharing a book that I've written and rewritten for over a decade. It is complete, but I will release it one chapter at a time to make sure that I've combed through the final editing process. You can expect a new chapter every Friday.**

"IF WE DIE, WE DIE IN BATTLE, LIKE MEN! ROW YOU DOGS! UNLESS YOU WANT TO ROT AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA!"

The great, world eagle, responsible for all the winds on Earth, flapped its wings and sent howling gusts across the sea, which blew against the longboat and tipped the vessel. Water sloshed over the side, and the sweat of the sea mingled with the sweat of men. The boat was canopied with a tarp of sailcloth, but the wide seams did little to keep the rain and seawater off the rowers. They battled the gusts, which blew as much water in from the sides as poured down from above, gnashing at the ship like the teeth and spit of the great sea serpent, Jormungund, who lived as a demigod beneath the waves.

Jormungund flipped his tail and the longboat rocked back, riding a wave straight up into the air. The rowers' oars lost contact with the water and they quickly grabbed hold of the rigging lines as the wave beneath them disintegrated, leaving the boat to free-fall back to the surface. The sea below them hallowed into a valley and they fell for several seconds before the smacking splash shook through the timber-skeleton of the ship, and the men crashed back to their benches.

"ROW!" Ragnar Lothbrok shouted to them as he clung to the rigging lines at the prow of the ship, watching the deadly waves move over the water as Jormungund prepared for another strike. "ROW OR WE ALL GO UNDER!"

Thor's mighty hammer rang through the sky, followed by a bright flash of lightning. The rowers were momentarily illuminated as they pressed their backs into their work, grunting as they pushed, pulled and heaved their way through the sea.

Guthrum was a red-headed, sweat-soaked boy of ten, who sat on a bench next to his eight-year-old brother, Ivar. Both boys gripped the handle of a single oar and worked to keep it in time with the seasoned warriors. Like the men on the voyage, the boys were nude as they battled the ocean, and the spray covered their skin.

Ragnar was proud of his sons. It was for Guthrum and Ivar that he was making this final crossing of the whale's road. Ragnar had spent years plotting his emigration, only to regret not having taken his family sooner. But all his planning, building, and forging would be for nothing if Jormungund managed to drown his fleet.

"ROW, YOU DOGS!"

The blowing wind pressed them and yanked at the rigging until the folded sail snapped away from the mast and unraveled so fast that the men could not take control of it. The boat jerked to the side, filling the hull with water, which covered Guthrum's bench, exposing him to the wide-open wilderness of the waves. Panic swelled his throat as he turned to look for his father.

Ragnar pulled a small axe from under a bench and hacked at the ropes of the rogue sail, but the wind had already pulled the ship over, and freezing water ran onto Guthrum's lap as the sea reached up, like the tentacles of a beast, to pull him down. Light poured over them in an eerie strobe, and thunder snapped at their ears. Ragnar grabbed Guthrum and pulled him to the sail mast, where several other men clambered for safety as the boat sank.

"HOLD ON TO SOMETHING!"

A massive wave fell over them, casting a giant shadow in the dark water. Guthrum could see it through a strobe of lightning, which brought the wave closer with each flash. He gripped the mast of the ship, wrapping his arms and legs around it. The wave struck and the mast cracked and shook beneath him. Several men lost their grip as the pole fell into the water with a groan and a slap.

Guthrum clung tight as the surface of the ocean rushed up to him. He was plunged into the cold water, submerged over his head, where the sea was filled with darkness and confusion. Pieces of the boat hit him from all sides, and his flailing feet were stabbed by splinters. Panic rose in his chest as he no longer knew which way was up. The water swirled around him, and broken pieces of boat, hardware, and men, swirled with it.

Hands reached through from the surface and grabbed hold of him, pulling Guthrum back into the howling wind of the raging storm. He was dragged into a dry hull where he gasped for breath. His ears were filled with water and the sounds of the raging sea drown out the sound of his brother's voice, shouting his name. Guthrum looked up to see Ivar sitting next to him, and he was awash with relief. The two boys were safe on an unharmed ship, but he heard warriors around them calling out as the sea sucked them down. By the mercy of the all-powerful gods, Guthrum and his brother were alive. They spat up saltwater as the men around them scrambled to throw ropes to the others.

Lightning split the sky and gave them a long moment of illumination, like that of midday. The waves rose like mountain peaks that were quickly toppled by the wind and then built up again. Guthrum could see other longboats around them, and he could see the men on their decks. The waves rose and pitched, and the wind tipped their boat, but Hroskell was a good navigator and he called out to his men, who rowed in time and showed the waves the power of their combined strength.

"THERE!" Ivar pointed to a shape in the water.

"GRAB HIM!" Hroskell ordered.

Guthrum recognized the braid of the man's black beard, it was Ubbe, from his father's boat. His eyes were closed, but the restless water beneath the waves moved his limp arms and made him appear to be reaching for them.

"HE IS GONE!" cried one of the men behind Guthrum.

"NO!"

Guthrum did not want them to give up. His own head was still soaked with saltwater and his lungs still wet with it, and he could not bear the thought of losing Ubbe to the cold darkness.

"HE IS NOT DEAD!" Guthrum shouted to be heard over the storm. "HE NEEDS TO COUGH THE WATER FROM HIS CHEST AND HE WILL BREATHE AGAIN! I KNOW IT!"

"GUTHRUM, HE IS GONE!" Hroskell insisted.

Guthrum turned away from him to leap into the water and save his friend. Hroskell grabbed him, his wet hands smacking Guthrum's wet flesh as he wrestled the strong, young boy. In the fight, Guthrum hit his chin on the gunwale and Hroskell took him down. Guthrum's head was ringing, but he still fought against Hroskell and hauled himself to the stern under the weight of the full-grown man. The boat was pushed on by the storm, and Ubbe was being left to the darkness. Guthrum panicked and fought harder. His body was a streaked mass of red where Hroskell grappled, slipped, and held him fast, pressing his weight against the boy to hold him still. Guthrum howled with frustration, but all signs of Ubbe, and the wreckage, faded from sight. Hroskell let him go back to his brother as the storm pushed them across the world and they were powerless to guide their own fate.

A loud crash jolted Guthrum and Ivar to the base boards of the boat. Guthrum sat upright and grabbed the edge of the gunwale. They had not seen the rocks before the rough winds rushed them toward land with enough force to break them apart. The shore was being beaten by weather and surf, and the waves that crashed against the land carried with them broken splinters of other vessels. The men jumped out to lift the boat, splashing into waist-deep water with waves still high enough to soak their heads. Guthrum grabbed the side to leap out as well.

"Stay where you are, both of you." Hroskell commanded.

Guthrum started to argue. "But, I can …"

"Sit in the middle of the hull!" Hroskell grunted under the weight of his burden as he and his men lifted the boat onto their shoulders.

Guthrum sat in the hull and crossed his arms, feeling the boat lift out of the chaos of the water, and rock steadily upon the strong arms of the warriors. Ivar sat next to his brother, respecting his mood. Solid ground was placed beneath them, and Guthrum sat up straight and peered through the silver sleet, but the rain was too dense for him to see if any of the other boats had made it through the rocks. He looked up at Hroskell, whose teeth were chattering, and every hair on his body stood on end.

"Can I get out now?" Guthrum asked, not hiding his irritation.

"Stay where you are."

"We need a fire," Guthrum said, because he could see that Hroskell was freezing.

"LOOK OUT!" Ivar screamed.

Guthrum saw men running down the beach with blades flashing. They were dressed strangely, and shouting words that he did not understand, but it was obvious to him that they were intent on razing the Norsemen. Hroskell threw open one of the benches next to Guthrum and pulled out a water-tight, seal-skin bag. He opened the bag and dumped it, grabbing an axe and a sword that he had stored there for the journey.

He barely had time to grip the handles and turn around before they were upon him. He swung the axe wide as he turned and hacked an attacker in the middle. With his other arm he swung the blade around and cut deep into his neck. Warm blood splattered over the boys as the other warriors grabbed their weapons. More enemies poured down the beach, and Hroskell led the warriors into the thick of them.

"STAY HERE!" Hroskell yelled over his shoulder.

The storm built to its climax above and around them. Lightning and thunder increased, and the wind and rain responded, making it even more difficult for the other boats to make their landing. Guthrum searched the open benches for stray weapons, but all blades were in the service of their masters, and the best that he could find was a discarded metal spike.

The sound of battle rang in the air just outside their boat, and Ivar grabbed his older brother with more power than either of them realized he possessed, yanking him to the center of the hull as he pulled the tarp over their heads. Ivar covered Guthrum's mouth with his hand. Guthrum felt like a coward, hiding under the tarp when he should be fighting, but he had an obligation to keep his brother safe. Guthrum gripped his spike with both hands, ready to impale an enemy if he had to, but he was deafened by the sound of the rain beating on the porous sail cloth that covered them. The sounds of the wind increased, further muffling the sound of the battle. Guthrum lay still, feeling the rain beat down, and several times they heard the scream and gurgle of a dying man. There was no way to know which side the fortune had, so they waited, and the rain soaked through their cover and hid Ivar's tears.

Guthrum pretended not to see his brother's weakness as he steeled his nerves and sat up to peek out from under the tarp. The beach was deserted but for the strewn bodies of the dead. Guthrum threw back his cover and sat upright, looking out at the world with wide, unblinking blue eyes. He could see a great pile of dead strangers, but only two among the corpses, Bard and Dag, were his own men.

Ivar sat up slowly and looked around. "Where are they?"

"I do not know."

"They left us here!" Ivar was incredulous.

The land was foreign. The color of the sky seemed strange and the shoreline was far different than any they had at home. It was rocky and formidable, like the people of the land who tried to kill them for wrecking upon their shores. Being left alone on the beach did not worry Guthrum, but his brother was soaked through and shivering.

"Come on." Guthrum climbed out of the boat and onto the beach. The feel of the sand, littered with pebbles and shells, caused a shiver to run through him. He was standing on alien soil, and the thrill of it almost made him dizzy.

"Where are we going? We do not know where to go!"

Ivar followed him over the side of the boat, but his shorter legs did not reach the sand before he fell out, landing on his bottom. Guthrum heaved him onto his feet as the rain drove at them, forcing them inland toward trees. Guthrum was wary, looking out for enemies. "We should have an axe," he grumbled, one hand grasping his spike. He looked back over the beach where many longboats had been landed, and he could no longer tell which boat he had just climbed out of. There were many pulled ashore, and many more that had been blown further down the beach.

"Come on!" Ivar urged, and hurried to the trees.

Guthrum followed at a slow, deliberate pace, looking out for enemies as they stepped into the undergrowth, which was soaked with rainwater. More water dripped through the trees, and the best that Guthrum could do was sit his brother on protruding roots so they could keep their bottoms relatively dry while they watched through the wet leaves for the warriors to return.

Guthrum sat still, listening to the rain lighten up, but the steady pitter-patter of droplets continued to fall musically all around them. Guthrum wondered if his father had survived the wreck, but he dared not speculate out loud. Ivar was staring at the beach through the thick foliage, a look of childish optimism on his face. Guthrum tried to listen in all directions, he tried to focus on something other than the biting cold, which was gnawing through his fingers and toes. He remembered his home.

His sisters fell ill first, then his youngest brother. When Guthrum's mother became ill, Aunt Rayna came to stay with them. The illness had already wiped out half of the village by that time, but his father was still on a voyage, and did not return until Mother had been dead for several days.

"She is gone," was all that Aunt Rayna could say to him.

Ragnar pushed his sister out of the way and rushed in to find the house reeking of the scent of death. Her body was still in the room, as if she were merely sleeping, but when he touched her, she was colder than the deepest sea.

"Both of the girls have died." Rayna whispered in the dark stillness of the cabin. "And Sigard only a week ago."

Ragnar could not bear to see his wife in such a morbid repose. He stayed on his farm only long enough to burn the bodies, then he took Guthrum and Ivar, the only survivors of his house, and he spent the summer on the coast, teaching his sons to build boats and forge weapons.

Twenty-three boats were outfitted for the journey, and all the men who would follow him struck out with Chief Ragnar, high-spirited as they talked about the pillaging that they would do. But Ragnar shared his real ambitions with Guthrum and Ivar, as they slept in their lean-to on the sandy beach. Ragnar wanted more than a simple raid, the benefits of which were limited to the amount of treasure they could carry.

"Conquest," Ragnar whispered to the stars. "A warm, green land. There are too many men here, and not enough land. We will go to a new place, and there we will be kings."


	2. Chapter 2

**So, did you know that in the Medieval Era, the son of the king was not granted the title of prince upon his birth unless his royal father decreed it? Neither did I. Did you know that kings were not called "majesty" until the 1500s when King Henry VIII of England decided that he was too grand for the title "highness"? Learning curve there. Did you know that royalty in Britain didn't live in castles until about 300 years after the setting of my story? I finished this manuscript so many times and then I learned something that caused me to go back through and rewrite or remove entire sections in my tireless quest for historic accuracy. The double edged blade is that there is very little written about the time period, so there are a lot of things I can make up, but it turns out there were also a lot of things I was taking for granted. This manuscript reflects about 15 years of research, and there is still so much that I don't know.**

"His royal highness, the King of Wessex, Sussex, Kent, and Jute, King Aethelwulf, and his son, Lord Alfred."

Five-year-old Alfred shivered in the cool morning air, listening to the announcer shout his name. He wanted to hug his mother one last time, but also knew that he had to be brave. Bishop Aethelheard raised his hands and all mumbling from the crowd ceased, and the docks became silent but for the lapping of the waves against the stony shore.

"May the Lord look down upon us, and bless this boat, and this sacred journey!" Archbishop Aethelheard called out in his thin, scratchy voice as he held his old, wrinkled hands up to the gray skies.

The king stepped forward, and Alfred's mother urged him to follow. He stepped away from the warmth of her body, looking back over his shoulder to see her. He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. He had to turn away from her, or risk walking right off the docks and into the cold, gray waves.

"Good luck, Alfred," whispered one of his elder brothers, but Alfred did not look up to see which one had spoken, instead he followed close behind his father.

They walked over the thin gangplank that led them from the docks and onto the ship where horses and supplies had already been loaded. The horses were on the lower deck of the ship, but the ship was not deep enough to keep the whole horse below-deck. For a man to walk from bow to stern, he would have to step over the backs of four horses, one plank of wood at a time for floor boards had been removed so that the horses' heads, necks and backs were exposed to the level of the ship where the people would ride, underneath the canopy of stars and sails.

Once aboard, Alfred looked back, and could barely find his family among the crowd of faces that stared at him. Bishop Aethelheard stood at the front of the crowd and continued his prayer his prayer in Latin. But the captain of the ship was not willing to wait. Alfred had never heard the word 'tide' before that day, and suddenly it was the only thing the adults would talk about.

The sea wind blasted across the open ship and blew Alfred's hair from his face. He looked up at his father and felt reassured by his presence. King Aethelwulf was wrapped in wolf skin, the fur of which wavered in the wind like his braided beard. He was a warrior king who had held his crown and land for more than two decades. Alfred resembled his father in his crystal-clear, blue eyes, chestnut-colored hair, and elegant nose.

Alfred watched with amazement as the men moved together to sail the large ship. The boat lurched out of the harbor, and the horses whickered. The captain steered them confidently through the jagged peaks of rock that made up the southern harbor while Alfred looked out over the gray skies and roiling seas that surrounded him. The scene to the north was oppressive, with low-lying, dark clouds, and lightning shooting sparks in the distance. Alfred shivered at the sight of the deep sea, but the king's ship turned south toward blue skies, and Alfred knew that he was safe because his father was with him. Evening found him still at the prow, looking out over the sky and sea, feeling as if he were flying.

Bishop Wihtred wrapped Alfred in a wool blanket. "You must stay warm, my lord," Wihtred informed him, and covered his head with a second blanket. The spit of the sea threw moisture all around them, and even though there was no rain, Alfred's blankets dampened and became heavy as the sky darkened.

Alfred looked up at the bishop, who was no older than his eldest brother, and newly titled. Wihtred was soft-spoken, and patient, with a round face and dancing eyes. He wore a simple monk's habit, which billowed about the soft roundness of him, but Alfred knew that he owned a bishop's cassock as well.

As the sun set in the west, they turned away from the blowing wind, and Alfred noticed his cheeks were tender, and his eyes burned as he looked around at the other men and beasts who shared his small space. The lower half of the ship was pungent with the aroma of dried fruit and barrels of weak ale, as well as the new, green rushes that covered the floor and comforted the horses. Alfred entertained the idea of climbing down into the hull of the ship for warmth and shelter from the wind, but he feared the horses' stomping feet.

Some of the men were engaged in conversations, and pockets of nervous laughter rose among them as the waves battered the sides of the boat. Candles were lit and placed on the gunwales of the ship, and the small light sparked flashes of color from the jeweled chalice that King Aethelwulf held. Dazzling bursts of ruby, sapphire, and emerald shone like beacons among the other men as the jewels reflected the soft candlelight.

"Ah, Alfred." Aethelwulf's large, gentle hand fell on the boy's shoulder, and Alfred nestled at his father's side. "This boy is for the church," Aethelwulf said to the men who sat around him. "He is already learning his letters. Show them, Alfred."

Alfred sat forward and brushed a few rushes from the floor in front of him, exposing a thin layer of soft dirt. He scratched a few lines with his finger. "A," Alfred informed them. "L-F-R," he concentrated. "E-D."

"Alfred," Aethelwulf read the word.

The men applauded and Alfred warmed with pride. Aethelwulf began telling the story of his own first pilgrimage while the men hung on his words and encouraged him. Everyone was awake and in a celebratory mood until late hours, until the king announced that he was tired. Alfred laid his head against his father, having no energy left to fret over the strangeness of his environment, and he fell fast asleep. Aethelwulf's warriors, however, lay awake long after the king and his son were snoring, listening to the creaks of the timbers that held them, all too aware of the slapping waves and deep ocean outside their flimsy walls.

Shivering in the dark, and without the glow of a hearth fire, Alfred woke in the night to the sound of the boat groaning. The timbers were grinding as if the ocean were pulling them apart or trying to crush the ship from the outside. The sounds were alarming, but all the men were still, so Alfred dared not twitch, thinking that his movement might break the boat to pieces. Instead, he lay on his back and looked up at the night sky. The moon was full and gave him enough light to see the bulk of his father on his left, whose body rose and fell with each deep, blissful breath. Alfred looked to his right and saw the others, lying still, and with their eyes open.

"What is that sound?" Alfred whispered. The boat groaned and creaked while the horses stamped and blew in their uneasy slumber. "Will we sail forever?"

"No, my lord," answered Wulfheard, the king's personal guard, who lay closest to the royal family.

"Is the boat breaking?" Alfred's voice was high with concern.

"No, my lord, it is a new ship, and it is settling. We are safe."

"Will we sail off the world?"

"No, we will turn before that happens. If a man were to sail too far, he would fall into the sun. It lives in the far south of the world and would burn our ship whole from its heat."

"Can nothing live there?"

"Oh, there are some who live there, yes, just as there are men made of ice who live in the farthest north."

"I know that giants live in the north," Alfred said. "But who lives in the south?"

"The antipodes, and a number of others."

"Antipodes?"

"The strangest sorts of men," Wulfheard answered.

"What kinds of men?"

"Their skin is as black as pitch, and their feet are backwards, as are their legs, but their bodies and faces are forwards. They even speak backwards. But they are not as fearsome as the tribes without heads."

"People with no heads?"

"Aye, their faces are in their chests, and they carry spears with poison tips. Men have died before they even knew a spear had been thrown. And then there are the men with elephant noses where their ears should be …"

"What is an elephant?"

"A magnificent creature used for war," Wulfheard explained. "It is much like a horse, but bigger, and all white in color. Instead of having a muzzle, the elephant has two large bottom teeth that protrude, which they can use to gore a man. Their nose extends down to their feet, and at the end of the nose they have a hand with two big fingers, which are strong enough to pick up people and throw them across a battlefield. Hannibal employed them, and they helped him win the Second Punic War, hundreds and hundreds of years ago.

Alfred shivered, and cuddled closer to his father. "Will we see elephants? And anti- … what are they?"

"The antipodes. They are far to the south, and we will not go that far. At the tip of the continent we will turn to the Mediterranean Sea."

"Have you been to Rome before, Wulfheard?"

"Aye, my lord. Your father has had me along before. But then we only crossed the channel and were off the ship in days. This will take far longer, but when we dock, we will be there. If we landed in Francia, we would spend months riding through the Holy Roman Empire, over mountains even."

"I like mountains."

"You have never seen any like these. And we cannot go that way. There is a disagreement among the sons of the emperor, may God keep his eternal soul, and his brothers press in on his kingdom from both sides. There may well be battles across the land. It is not safe to assume that the new pope would regard us as well as the last or extend us the same protection. We are of a small kingdom, after all.

"Is Wessex small?"

"It is the richest kingdom on the Island of the Britons, to be sure. But Briton is distant from Rome, and from the power of the church. You should sleep, my lord. You will wake when the sun rises."

Alfred tried to be patient while days went by on the ship, and weeks saw them around the curve of the continent. One morning, gulls appeared around their boat, and one landed so close that Alfred could reach out and touch it, if it were not so quick to escape his grasp.

"We could have eaten that." Ser Wulfheard muttered, his leathered eye-wrinkles encrusted with dirt from the ship and salt from the sea.

"I shall be quicker next time." Alfred stationed himself next to the stern to wait for another bird to light. The bright sunlight burned his eyes, and the water swam with sparkling sunbeams. The turbulent weather of his homeland had faded and given way to clear, white skies, and the bluest water he could have imagined.

"The Mediterranean Sea." King Aethelwulf sighed with relief.

Alfred stared down at the crystal blue water, like the color of his own eyes, and it went on forever in every direction. The water was so clear that he could see the fish, and even the rocks all the way at the bottom. He was mesmerized by the white skies, in which he could not find the orb of the sun, he could only see light. He remained at the prow of the ship for hours, coming away only when he was forced to eat, then he hurried back to stare at the water and the myriad of fish and creatures.

He had anticipated land, but days stretched out on the deck of the sunbaked ship. Alfred had never been so warm in his life. Mirages of land appeared on the horizon, but then night enveloped them, and he would sleep and wake again, still adrift. The change in the bird calls was the first evidence that they were finally arriving. Alfred watched the shoreline come slowly and painstakingly into view, and each new day brought them closer to Rome.

The quiet of the sea shifted to noise and commotion as the ship made its way from the river and through a canal, which carried them the rest of the way to the magnificent international city. Boats appeared around them, some moving toward the docks, and some were launching, and some loitered amid the river dangling fishing lines. As they came closer, the noises of fishermen reached Alfred's ears. Foreign standards wavered over foreign ships, dyed in strange colors and touted by strange men who spoke their own words.

"The antipodes!" Alfred gasped under his breath when he saw men with skin as black as pitch. He did not know how many colors human skin could be until they rode into the dock of Rome. Glittering jewels and shimmering clothes adorned the most foreign looking of people. As the Wessex ship moored, Alfred took his place next to his father. He stood quietly and listened to the sounds of the harbor workers around him, and as his gaze wandered over the feast of color and commotion, he saw that the wooden Saxon ship, a ship which he had thought was so grand, was dwarfed by high-mast, gold-gilded vessels, which towered over them on both sides.

"Take this." Aethelwulf pressed a leather-bound package against Alfred's chest.

Alfred looked at the sheath in his hands, beneath which he could feel metal. Unwrapping the belt, he grasped the wooden hilt of the seax, his first Saxon blade. He pulled it from its leather scabbard and admired the glint of the steel as it flashed in the sunlight. The king lowered himself to one knee to fasten the leather strap around Alfred's waist.

"You carry the honor of your people with this blade."

Alfred followed his father over the gang plank. First the royal family made their way, then the priests, followed by the warriors, who remained on the docks to unload the horses. Alfred looked down at the brilliant blue water as they reached the wooden planks of the harbor, then the solid ground of Italy. The feeling was strange at first, as the rhythm of the waves was left behind, and his holy pilgrimage lay ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

A weak sun tried to break through the gray, damp morning. Guthrum and Ivar had spent the most miserable night they could remember, and as Ivar woke from a fitful slumber he started to whimper for their father. Guthrum was also concerned about him.

"What should we do?" Ivar moaned. He stood, holding his back like an old man as he straightened himself out from a night of sitting on a root. The rain was drizzling through the leaves of the trees around them.

"Let's return to the boat," Guthrum suggested. His skin was waterlogged, and he could no longer control the shiver.

Ivar took a step and cried out in pain. "Guthrum," he sobbed. "I do not think I can walk."

Guthrum pitied his brother, even though he knew that he should tell Ivar to be strong. Instead, he knelt and took Ivar onto his back, and carried him through the jutting roots and undergrowth, to the brushy edge of the wood, and onto the rocky beach. There he stopped in his tracks, nearly dropping his brother.

"Who is that?" Guthrum yelled at a dark figure.

Dark birds took wing behind the cloaked man, and Guthrum held his breath, certain that he was about to come face to face with Odin, the All-Father. As the man reached up to pull back his hood, Guthrum anticipated white hair and only one good eye, as Odin had famously given up his right eye to attain all the knowledge in all the worlds. Guthrum realized that if he was about to speak to Odin, then he and his brother had probably died in the night. The thought sent ice through his veins as the hood of the cloak pulled back to reveal a face.

Guthrum did not see white hair, as he expected, and the man looking at him had two good eyes. It was Hroskell. Guthrum was washed with relief. "Hroskell!" He hurried, Ivar still on his back, to meet the warrior, who was waiting next to several landed ships. Guthrum knew for the first time that most of his father's ships had made it to land, he could count fifteen and there were more in the distance. His grin faded as he looked around. "Hroskell … our father?"

Hroskell smiled at him. "Your father has sent me to find you. Come."

Guthrum shifted Ivar's weight and they started to walk.

"Can you not stand on your own, Ivar?"

"My legs hurt," Ivar admitted. "I could not take a step."

"There must be a healer in this country." Hroskell patted him on the head. "We will get you well again."

Guthrum was in high spirits as they came to a wooden fortress. "Have we captured this hall?" he asked.

"Your father is the master now," Hroskell smiled. "He waits within, next to a roaring fire, Ivar!"

"Good," Ivar muttered, resting his weary head on Guthrum's shoulder.

They walked into the warm hall, with dry straw on the floor and the smell of meat cooking over a fire. Guthrum spotted his father next to the fire and set Ivar on the ground to run to him.

"I thought that Jormungund had taken you!" Guthrum gasped, falling to the ground where his father was seated, and wrapped his arms around him. "Thank the gods that you are safe, Father!"

"My prayers have been answered." Ragnar patted Guthrum's bare back, just before someone draped the naked boy with a supple, fur lined cloak. Guthrum pulled the cloak tight around himself.

Ragnar smiled at him. "Sit here, dry yourself. Where is your brother?"

Ivar was still sitting near the door.

"Come Ivar," Guthrum called to him. "Sit with our father so that he can welcome you."

Ivar studied the ground.

"Come here, my son," Ragnar ordered.

Ivar struggled to get his legs under him.

"Is he weak?" Ragnar was concerned. "Hroskell, bring my son here."

Hroskell helped Ivar to his feet, and Ivar gripped him as he tried to take a step, but his face was pained. The rest of the warriors were silent as they all watched Ivar hobble the few steps to the fire, where he collapsed and panted, laying on his side as he tried to catch his breath.

"Bring him a cloak," Ragnar muttered. "Ivar, are you unwell? It must have been a long night. You are both drenched."

"Yes, F-f-father." Ivar shivered, and took the cloak that was offered to him, covering himself with it and edging closer to the fire.

"When your blood warms, you will feel much better," Ragnar predicted. "Bring him broth!"

Guthrum looked around the space for the first time and noticed a huddle of miserable figures lined up along the wall. They were the people that had tried to kill the Norsemen, and now they were captives, along with their women and children.

Ragnar stoked the fire and kept Ivar sweating overnight, and when he was no better in the morning, the chief ordered rags to be boiled, and for the hot cloths to be laid on Ivar's legs, which still pained him.

"Find a healer," Ragnar told his men. "Scour the villages. Look in the forest for willow bark."

Several men left the hall on Ragnar's order, and Guthrum watched as his tribe forced the captive women to place steaming hot rags on Ivar's legs. Ivar gritted his teeth, trying not to yell out as they seared his skin.

"Who held this fort before, Father?" Guthrum asked, watching the slaves with suspicion.

"It was the house of the king of this land. We have learned much, in addition to what we already knew about this island. There are several kingdoms. The king of this place was called the King of Northumbria, and his wife and son are over there."

Guthrum had not noticed the cowering woman and shaking little boy until his father pointed them out. "What will you do with them?"

"Perhaps put the boy on the throne and make him do what I say. The people of this land are worth more if we let them live and make them pay us tribute. All dwellers of the land give money to their king, or food, or service. We can use all of these things."

"Why not be the king yourself?"

"They would not accept that, my son. It must be a king that their god ordained, or there would be war. War is not profitable. A warrior never fights if he can avoid it."

"Yes, Father."

"It hurts," Ivar sobbed.

"Do NOT cry out!" Ragnar raised his voice.

Tears rolled down Ivar's face, but the only sound that emitted was a pathetic whimper.

"Where is that healer?" Ragnar wondered out loud.

Guthrum walked to the wide-open door of the house, where the smoke from the hearth fire drifted out. The sun was breaking through persistent clouds, and the brightness of the morning made him squint as he inspected the road. The fort was surrounded by peasant huts, beyond which were tilled fields, which were in turn surrounded by forest. The fort was situated on a hill, so he could see well into the distance, but he could not see anyone returning with a healer.

He came back to the fire and sat down next to his brother, who stared at the smoky ceiling, gritting his teeth. Guthrum pulled one of the rags back from its place on Ivar's leg, and he gasped at the red, irritated skin.

"Get these off him!" Guthrum pulled it back so fast that it ripped Ivar's skin, and Ivar screamed out.

Ragnar slapped Ivar across his face. "Silence! Endure your pain! You shame me!"

Ivar sobbed quietly. Guthrum took another rag off more carefully and verified that the blisters covered his legs.

"THOSE WITCHES!" Guthrum exploded at the slaves who were huddled along the walls of the house.

Most of the men had been killed in the fighting, so it was mainly women and children who shivered under the bellow of the ten-year-old boy's voice, though they probably did not know his words. He did not care, he railed at them, and he thrilled at their reaction.

"All right, Guthrum," Ragnar growled. "You are not helping Ivar."

"Chief Ragnar!" Hroskell called from the door, dragging a haggard-looking old man behind him. "This one is a healer. He dwells in the forest because his own people hate him."

"Let him come," Ragnar motioned him forward. "You will help my son." Ragnar put a finger in the old man's face. "You will help him, so that his legs are no longer blistered, nor useless."

The old man looked terrified. Guthrum had often seen people terrified of his father, but before that day he had not known what it felt like to illicit that fear in the eyes of another. He thought that his father must feel powerful.

Ragnar pointed at Ivar, and the old man shuffled over to him. He inspected Ivar's legs, and produced a root from his bag. He squeezed juice from the root all over the blisters, chanting under his breath while he worked.

"Is he casting a spell, Father?" Guthrum asked. He watched Ivar's face for signs of distress, but he seemed to be soothed by the salve.

"If he does anything but heal the boy," Ragnar gripped the sword he wore at his side.

The old man produced a saucer and bag of powder. He poured the powder onto the plate, then used a stick to take a small flame from the hearth, and he lit it. The air became filled with incense smoke, and the old man chanted. He held up a staff, an old gnarled walking stick, which was decorated with hanging rocks, beads, and bones of various small animals. He rattled the staff in the air above Ivar, and everyone in the room was silent as they watched him. The old man's eyes were closed, and through his eyelids he saw something that none of them could divine. The bone rattling slowed, and the old man's chants became whispers, until he was the only one who could hear them. Then the healer became silent and everyone waited.

The smoke of the incense swirled around them and the crackle of the fire filled their ears. If a man moved his foot, the scuffing sound was audible over the strained quiet of the crowded hall. In the middle of the room, next to the fire, Ivar stared up at the ceiling as he listened to the healing ritual, but he did not feel the magic working. His legs were still numb and weak. He moved his legs, just to assure himself that he still could, but they had not magically grown strong.

The old man blinked the haze of age out of his pink-veined eyes as he focused on the young boy, and Ivar looked back at his milky, blue orbs. The old man chanted a whisper, and Ivar felt like he was being asked a question. He furrowed his brow and listened to the foreign words over and over, until he started to wonder if the old man was laying a curse on him. He turned his eyes away.

"Tell me, Healer," Ragnar demanded of the aged and hunched Saxon. "Will my son's legs heal? Or is he stunted?"

The old healer shuffled to his bag of herbs. Ragnar paced the room while the old man-made wraps, filled them with herbs, and secured them around both of Ivar's thighs. Holding up seven fingers, the healer motioned emphatically to Ragnar.

"Seven?" Ragnar asked.

The old man nodded, holding up seven fingers again. He pointed to himself, held up seven fingers a third time, and pointed to the ground in front of himself.

"You will return in seven days." Ragnar predicted.

The warriors stepped back and let the old man shuffle back out of the hall, and Ivar laid comfortably with the poultices on his legs.

"How are you, Brother?" Guthrum asked him.

"I think I will get well," Ivar whispered.

Guthrum looked back at his father, but Ragnar did not look reassured.

"Why does he live in the forest instead of with his own people? Does he seek knowledge in his solitude?" Guthrum asked.

"He is of an ancient faith," Ragnar explained. "If the followers of the king's faith were to catch him, they would call him an un-believer and burn him."

Guthrum scoffed. "They would give him great glory with such a death."

"Only if he could take it without crying out," Ragnar reminded him. "When the moment comes for you to die, Odin will watch you, and he will judge if you are worthy to sit with him in his great hall, and feast from his great table. No matter how bravely you walk to your death, you must take it bravely to your last breath."

"Yes, father."


	4. Chapter 4

The sun poured down and baked the yellow earth of the foreign land. Men grunted under the weight of crates while masters and merchants shouted to be heard over one another. The workers labored on the ships, on the docks, and in the streets as they moved endless crates from a line of waiting ships. Alfred stayed close to his father, and men made way for them. Aethelwulf's crown announced them.

Alfred noticed a boy sitting atop a large crate, watching the activity below him. The boy wore clothes of a spider-web material, which shimmered in the sunshine. The boy noticed him, too, and smiled to see someone his own age. He wore a pile of cloth on his head, held in place with a golden broach encrusted with jewels, and heavy gold earrings pulled at his earlobes. Dark make up underlined his eyes and a rising sun had been drawn onto his forehead, just between his eyes, in yellow and red pigment. The rest of him was no less adorned; a necklace, thick and sparkling, rested on his chest, arm bracelets at his biceps and wrists, along with rings on his fingers all sparkling in the warm sun. His clothes were brightly colored, and his chest and shoulders were bare, but he was wrapped around the midsection and the rest of the way down with billowing, intricately woven, shining cloth. Even his sparkling shoes were turned up at the ends in a point. He was altogether magnificent.

"Hello." Alfred stopped close enough to be heard.

The boy looked down and said something that Alfred did not understand.

A man walked from around the crate, his skin was as dark and his hair as black as the child's. He was dressed in the same amazing cloth and ornaments. He held his hands together in a greeting as he addressed Alfred's father.

"Your highness." The brown-skinned man spoke in Italian, but Alfred had to concentrate to understand his heavy accent. "May the Christian God's blessings shine upon you."

"May the Lord bless you," King Aethelwulf responded.

"Do you travel to see the cardinal today?"

"To see the pope," Aethelwulf answered.

"We shall walk together. I, too, am to see the pope. The cardinals await us there."

Alfred looked to where the man was pointing, and he could see a tent set up just beyond the commotion of the docks. The strange, glittering boy jumped down from his crate and grabbed Alfred's hand. Smiling, the foreign boy pulled him along behind their fathers.

The boy spoke again, but Alfred did not know the language. He tried Italian, and the boy nodded his understanding.

"Mahaam," he pointed to himself.

"Alfred."

Mahaam smiled at him. "Alfred," he repeated.

Alfred nodded.

Hawkers and crowds slowed their progress, but most of the peasants recognized royalty, and at least tried to scurry out of their way. Alfred was awed by the sights, the sounds, the people, and all the activity that surrounded the dock. Every sort of person was present, from the filthy poor to reaches of wealth like Alfred had never realized.

King Aethelwulf led his son and the rest of the procession to a small tent, in front of which waited a cardinal, a man wearing a red cassock so stunning in color that Alfred thought vividly of the blood of Christ. The brown-skinned man in the magnificent weave bowed his head solemnly, bringing his hands together and touching his face.

"The Lord has blessed your journey." The cardinal spoke in Latin, and Alfred understood him.

"Your grace," King Aethelwulf stepped forward. "We thank you, and all of Wessex thanks you, for receiving us here in this holy city."

"Your pilgrimage will please his Holiness." The cardinal stepped forward and laid a hand on Aethelwulf's shoulder. Alfred watched, while behind them gifts were being exchanged; tin and wool had been brought from Wessex, as well as a bag of coins bearing Aethelwulf's name. The cardinals gave the Wessex king a large, heavy cross made of gold, and inlaid with fine gems.

"You must be hungry after your long journey." The cardinal motioned them toward a lodge.

Alfred and Mahaam held hands as they walked into a building that was grander than anything Alfred had ever seen. Mahaam did not seem surprised by their surroundings, but Alfred's eyes were wide. The walls were taller than any fortress in the kingdom of Wessex, and were covered with ornate tapestries, which sparkled like Mahaam's clothes. The hall was filled with low tables laden with sweet smelling flowers and pungent fruit. Soft cushions surrounded the table, and Alfred followed his father and took his place, glad that Mahaam took the place on his other side.

The chattering of the people created a loud buzz, as the men were feeling a victory after surviving their voyage. None of the conversations concerned Alfred, so he sat back to marvel at the high roof beams and long tapestries that stretched from ceiling to floor.

"What are these . . . blankets?" Mahaam asked in Italian.

"Tapestries," Alfred told him. "Each one shows a story. Stories from the Bible. That is the birth of Jesus. That one is Moses."

"Ah," Mahaam nodded as he examined the golden threads.

The Saxons began to munch on a serving of fruit, and the cardinal who had brought them from the docks stepped forward. "The reading," he informed them, holding up a large scroll.

Alfred enjoyed the biblical reading, which was in Latin. Even more, he enjoyed the juices of fresh grapes, pears, and some fruits he had never seen before. There had been little fresh food on the ship, though sometimes the men would manage to catch fish. Alfred was disappointed to see that the second course was herring, but the taste of it in southern Italy was different than the half-scorched, half-raw meat that his father's warriors had provided at sea. Lucrative trade made spices in Rome plentiful, and Alfred tasted basil and pepper, and other new and wonderful flavors. His taste buds were dancing on his tongue before the servants brought out spiced wine.

Mahaam's father held a hand out to stop the servant from pouring wine for him, but Aethelwulf accepted his with gusto, and Alfred was also given a cup of the thick, purple liquid. Mahaam raised his eyebrows as Alfred picked up the cup and tipped it back. "Would you have some?" Alfred asked.

Mahaam cocked his head from one side to the other, smiling brightly. "No, thank you, my friend."

Alfred drank some more, and his head swam between the laughter of the familiar men and the talking of their foreign companions. He felt suspicious that the foreigners were not drinking wine, instead Mahaam had a cup of warm milk. Mahaam's father was talking about the climate of his kingdom, which resided on the opposite side of the world from Wessex.

Servants interrupted Alfred's thoughts with a course of pottage made of rice and lamprey, thick with boiled vegetables and herbs, accompanied by bread made of grains that Alfred did not recognize. He devoured his portion, and when the wooden trenchers were cleared away, the servants brought out large, decorative bowls filled with cherries and almonds, and placed them before the kings. When the kings had eaten what they wanted, the servants moved the bowls down the long table, serving the men in the order of their rank.

A servant placed plates of delicate roast sparrow in front of them. Alfred tore into his and smiled at Mahaam as the juices ran down their fingers.

Mahaam gestured toward a tapestry on the wall. "Can you say the story of this blanket?"

Alfred told him every Bible story that was represented in the hall that night. The dinner lasted hours, and the last course was honey-baked, crispy wafers.

"Your highnesses." The servants motioned the royal families toward a second room.

"Your highness," whispered a chorus of servants as they urged the lumbering kings.

Alfred snatched up a handful of wafers and followed close behind his father. The cardinal's servants brought them to an adjoining hall, which boasted a hearth fire, several cotton hammocks, and some fine oaken chests. Alfred slowed his pace to investigate the room as he munched on his wafers, and the men took places around the fire. The young lord touched the hammocks, not understanding their purpose. He pulled at them and found them well-secured to the wall, but the hammocks were too strange for the king of Wessex, who bedded on the ground beside the fire.

Mahaam smiled at Alfred and took hold of one of the hammocks, spread the netting, he rolled himself into it. The hammock sagged with his body and rocked gently, and Mahaam grinned through the netting. Alfred attempted to get into a hammock, but it did not open as magically as Mahaam's, and Alfred fell on the ground. Mahaam giggled and got out of his bed to help his new friend.

Alfred managed to roll into the hammock on his third try, and he and Mahaam swung gently in their beds and smiled at one another as sleep pulled at their heavy eyelids. Alfred listened to the sound of his father's voice and the crackle of the hearth fire, which had been built with wood instead of the peat that he was accustomed to. The smell of burning wood disturbed his nose, but he was unable to stay awake no matter how strange the environment.

Alfred dreamt that he was on the ship, and the waves were gently rocking him. When he woke in the morning, he was surprised to find that he was not on the boat after all, but finally on dry land. Mahaam helped him get out of the netting of his hammock and they joined their fathers to walk outside.

Alfred squinted in the bright morning light, noting that the sun seemed closer to the Earth than it ever had at home. Light gleamed from the rocks and the sandy ground. Dust lifted around Alfred's foot as he stepped onto Italian soil.

"Mahaam," his father called to him.

Alfred let go of his friend's hand and watched him walk to a waiting line of bright white, Arabian horses, paired and attached to chariots. Mahaam and his father got onto the back of the first chariot, and their driver started the horses forward. Behind the line of Arabian horses, Alfred saw the Wessex knights bringing their own horses, which had traveled across the ocean with them. Alfred saw his horse, a gray beast with black mane and tail, the horse tossed its head when it saw him, too.

"Hi Cloud," Alfred patted the horse's neck as he stepped on the back of a hunched over servant to take his saddle.

King Aethelwulf mounted his old black stallion and they moved forward, riding easily over the old Roman road, which was paved so smooth that Alfred could not have imagined the process they used to make it. Such learning had been lost long ago, but remnants of it were still evident even as far away as Wessex, where ancient Roman roads were still in use.

Alfred looked up at the large curving arches of the aqueducts, the ancient constructions, and his mouth fell open with amazement.

"Once, the city of Rome took their water from the rivers and transported it along those troughs, built high up in the air." King Aethelwulf pointed at the massive structures, arches sitting upon arches, showing the blue sky between the pillars, like a loosely woven wall that spanned the length of the massive city that sprawled out before them.

Alfred had seen cities walled by timber, some with rock walls, but Rome was far more impressive. Though he had heard stories about it, Alfred never could have imagined what it looked like when a city was walled in quarried stone, which had been sanded smooth and seemed to rise out of the ground as if God had commanded a wall to grow there. Alfred could see several walls, cordoning off different neighborhoods within the giant city wall, which ran all the way around Rome.

Alfred looked up at the impossibly tall gate that separated the city, and he wondered if giants had constructed the huge pillars and lintel. They began their parade through the main road where guards pushed commoners out of their way. People lined the streets, shouting in foreign voices, cheering the strangers who were important enough to be escorted by three cardinals. The ragged people stared up at Alfred as he rode between them, down the flat-paved streets and to the heart of the city.

Alfred looked up at a church that was three times taller than the basilica in Canterbury. Beyond the church were the even-larger, ruined walls of a coliseum, elaborately decorated with sculptures of life-sized people in various stages of undress. Alfred blushed and turned his eyes away. The road to the Vatican came into view as they crested a hill; a city inside of a city. The walls were greater than those surrounding Rome itself, and were overlaid with white marble that caused a glare from the sun, and Alfred had to squint to look at it.

"That is Leo's Wall," Aethelwulf said.

The men crossed themselves, and Bishop Wihtred kissed the crucifix that he wore around his neck as they remembered the previous pope. The cardinals led them through the gates and past the guards. Alfred looked for white Arabian horses, or someone dressed in glittering silk, but he did not see his friend among the crowded garden. They turned their horses to the stable, and young boys rushed out to take hold the reigns and help the riders dismount.

The receiving courtyard of Vatican Hill was a feast for the eyes, filled with brightly dressed people, flowering plants, and bronze and marble fountains.

Alfred could barely contain his excitement. "What are those?" he asked as he tugged at Ser Wulfheard's sleeve.

"They are from the time when people controlled the water."

Wulfheard stopped with Alfred to look at the fountains. Alfred saw them as they were, crumbling or covered in green patina. He did not think that they looked magical at all, no more than the giant, ruined walls of the aqueducts.

"Come, my lord." Bishop Wihtred motioned Alfred away from the Wessex guards.

Aethelwulf turned away and took his armed retinue to a carved stone staircase that would take them up to a large white building atop the hill.

"Father!" Alfred called to him, but Aethelwulf did not hear through the commotion of the stable yard, which was filled with the sound of horses and boys, and dogs barking and men shouting.

Several knights strode through the yard, wearing crests of kingdoms that Alfred did not recognize. The guards, priests and archbishops shuffled between the little lord and his father, and Alfred's voice was utterly lost. He was nearly left alone, but for Bishop Wihtred, who had donned his black-and-red bishop's cassock for the important day. Alfred looked at his guardian and thought that he still appeared meager in dress compared to the other men of God who loitered through the yard. Wihtred's only ornaments were a wooden crucifix, and a jeweled ring which had been given to him by Alfred's father when he took his vows of office.

Alfred followed Wihtred to a portico, which led to a wide hallway made of smooth alabaster, and the floors were paved with clean, sparkling tiles. He looked up at the high ceilings and saw banners of amazing color and design, hanging at regular intervals. As he walked, he was staring upward and paying so little attention to where he was going that he ran into a nobleman.


	5. Chapter 5

"Pardon," said the stately figure, draped in fine blue cloth.

Alfred replied in the language of West Francia. "God bless you, your highness, I beg your pardon. I am your most humble servant."

"The Lord keep you, little one. You speak very well," the king said. "And whose boy are you?"

"My name is Alfred, if it please your highness. I am the fifth son of King Aethelwulf of Wessex. I have come from the Island of the Britons on my first pilgrimage."

"Is that so? Then may God bless your sacred journey. I am King Charles of West Francia, son of Lothair the First. And these are my sons, the Princes Louis, Charles, Lothair, and Carloman."

The royal entourage stood around the king, as did his sons, who were grand in weaponry, and clothes that were so fine that Alfred's fingers itched to touch the material. His hand fell on the wooden hilt of his Seax as he eyed the jeweled, golden handle of the Frankish princes magnificent curved blades. The youngest of the princes appeared to be Alfred's age, and the older boys only a few years in difference.

"The Lord keep you, my lords," Alfred bowed to them.

The boys' bodies were engulfed by the broad-patterned tunics that they wore, which swam in a sea of other brightly colored tunics and hosiery worn by the Franciscan noblemen around them. All the patterns, which glittered with golden threading, left the Frankish princes' heads looking out of place, as if they had popped them through a tapestry. But their jeweled crowns looked quite real, glittering at the slight nod of acknowledgment with which they favored Alfred, all bored by the introduction.

"Au revoir," the king said, bowing his head slightly.

Alfred bowed formally, at the waist, and attempted a friendly smile at the boys. He watched as the foreign royals took their colorful splendor out into the sunshine and Alfred turned away with Wihtred. He was stunned as they made their way to the end of the hall and saw magnificent hanging gardens in a courtyard, and everything beyond the brilliant flowers was also lavishly decorated, the windows and furniture were all draped in heavy cloth, woven with intricate designs and gold thread. Some of the people wore clothes made of silk, painted with large flowers or tiny butterflies. Alfred stayed close to Wihtred as they walked through the portico and past several armed Vatican guards, all swathed in purple beneath their leather armor.

They made their way through the courtyard and back inside the building, where the air was cool, and steady breezes blew in from the windows. Alfred wondered where in the vast maze of corridors his father could be, but the servant who led them moved with confidence, turning them down one hallway, through a large room filled with people who stopped their tasks to watch them walk through, and then down another hallway.

Guards stood in front of a large, wooden door, but they stepped aside for the servant, and pulled the heavy doors open to give them access to a glorious suite of rooms. Alfred and Wihtred waited for most of the day, and when his father found them, it was late in the evening, and Alfred was asleep. When Alfred woke the next morning, his father was leaving again.

"But, Father, I also wished to meet the Pope." Alfred stumbled out of his bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"I will not see the Pope today, my son. And you shall have a grand adventure in the city today."

"I wish to go with you."

King Aethelwulf smiled at his youngest boy and knelt to wrap his strong arms around the slight child. "I will see you in the evening. I shall not be gone so late today."

"Alright. I will go on the adventure."

Aethelwulf laughed and brushed Alfred's hair back from his face. "Have fun for me, for my day shall be very boring."

"Yes, Father."

Alfred and Wihtred were taken to the stables and given their own horses. Alfred fed a bite of apple to Cloud before taking his saddle.

A Vatican guard rode up to Alfred and Wihtred as they mounted their horses. "I am Alexander," the guard said.

"Are you … Alexander the Great?" Alfred asked.

Alexander the guard laughed. "No, my lord, that man is long dead. But I am named in his honor, as are many men in my city. I have been commanded by your royal father to take you through the city."

"Where are you going to take me?"

"Wherever you wish to go," Alexander said. "The Coliseum, the Pantheon. Nothing is off limits."

Alfred nodded his agreement, and he and Wihtred followed behind Alexander, who led them back to the city, and beyond Leo's Wall. A troop of guards fell in step behind Alfred and Wihtred, creating a formidable wall around the visiting royal.

Their horses clomped their hooves on the paved streets, but Alfred could see very little through the throng of foreign guards protecting him. He could hear the people calling out beyond the wall of horses, but the only face he could see was Wihtred's. Even the guards' faces were hidden behind their bronze helms, shining brightly in the sunlight.

Hawkers filled the streets with noise, and vendors eagerly gave Alfred gifts as he rode by. When he was hungry, the vendors fed him while the common people stood in long lines, waiting to pay for their bread. Some of the vendors gave him bolts of fine cloth or carved wooden toys. He was given a front row seat at several puppet shows that caught his interest, and people clamored around him as he ventured from place to place. None of them seemed to know who he was, but they knew that he was important, and they pressed through one another to get a look at him.

The Vatican guards were rough with the commoners who got too close. Alfred escaped the commotion when he was taken inside an ancient building. In the holy and historic places, common people were held back, and the hall, with its monumental vaulted ceiling, was nearly silent but for the echo of Alfred's footsteps as he and his entourage made their way through. Rome was hot compared to the climate to which he was accustomed, and sweat ran in rivulets down his back, even while he was inside the cool building. Alfred was unconcerned with physical discomfort as he was busy studying the paintings, the sculptures, and the mounds of history displayed before him. His head was swimming with the culture of Italy, and the taste of their spices were on his tongue throughout the day. The sun began to sink in the west, and Alexander led the group back to Leo's Wall.

"You see that building there?" Alexander pointed. "That is St Paul's basilica."

"Can we go there?"

"Yes, my lord."

The guards made a clear path for Alfred, all the way to the steps of the basilica, moving the regular people out of his way. Alfred walked into the glittering, high-vaulted building and was dazzled by the detail in the mosaics that filled every inch of the space. He walked to the altar with Wihtred, and the sound of their footsteps echoed. Alfred noted a wall of the small candles burning as he knelt before the altar, awed that the bones of the saint were right below his feet, and had been there for hundreds of years.

"This is the place where Charlemagne was crowned Emperor of Rome," Alfred whispered.

"Yes, my lord." Wihtred knelt beside him. "It is."

Alfred's stomach rumbled loud enough to echo through the large, nearly empty building.

"My lord," Wihtred nudged. "We will get some food for you."

Alfred did not want to leave the basilica so soon but wanted to study every detail on every wall. His gnawing hunger pains persuaded him, however, and he got up and followed Wihtred to the door.

They went back to the Vatican, returned their horses to the stable, and made their weary way back to their rooms. Alfred ate fruit until the servants arrived with meat and vegetables, and the young boy dozed on soft cushions while he waited for his father to arrive. When Aethelwulf returned, he brought with him the King of West Francia and the unhappy-looking sons that followed like ducklings in a row. Alfred looked to the boy who was his age and found an unfriendly expression on the other child's face. His brothers seemed even less friendly, but Alfred was obliged to go to the courtyard with them while their fathers spoke in the portico. Alfred could see his father, but he could not hear what they were talking about.

The brothers began to play a game of complicated nature, and Alfred found a bench on which to sit while he watched. As he sat, he looked around the vista from their courtyard and saw his father's guard hurrying down Vatican Hill to the Borgo. The sight of Wulfheard in a mad dash caused fear to bubble inside of Alfred, and he stood up to try and see where the old guard was going.

Prince Carloman saw him standing on the bench and turned to see where he was looking, and while he was distracted his brother Lothair hit him in the arm and he lost at the complicated set of rules of their game.

"That is not fair!" Carloman cried out, tears burning his eyes.

"It is fair," Lothair informed him. "Is it not, Charles?"

They turned to the other brother for a ruling in the game. "Fair," Charles announced.

"British," one of the servants called out as he hurried through the courtyard.

Alfred craned his neck to see, but it was several minutes before the entourage of Elderman Edgar of Somerset materialized from the crowd. He jumped off the bench and ran to his father when he recognized the elderman's face, and his father broke off the conversation with King Charles.

"Lord Somerset, Father," Alfred whispered.

Aethelwulf went to the courtyard, where Wulfheard was leading a group of Saxons, who by Alfred's now-experienced eye, appeared unkempt and unrefined. Their longswords and fur-coverings did not shine and sparkle like the fine clothes and jewels of the Romans or the Franciscans, and he was ashamed.

"God be praised at the sight of you, Somerset!" Aethelwulf called to the elderman as he entered the courtyard. "What news have you from home? How fares my kingdom?"

"Your highness," Edgar took a deep breath as he lowered himself to one knee and fixed his eyes upon the ground. "I bare a heavy burden with the messages that I bring you. God be merciful."

Aethelwulf lifted his chin, looking down upon Lord Somerset's head. "What has happened?"

"Her ladyship, I am afraid …"

"Osburga?"

"Yes, your highness," Edgar bowed his head. "She … fell ill with fever after you left. She did not recover. God rest her soul."

Aethelwulf's hand flew to his chest, and he lowered his chin. Alfred saw small droplets of tears fall onto his wolf-skin vest. The little boy reached out and gripped the small finger on his father's hand. The mighty king looked, red-eyed, at his youngest son, who reminded him of his beautiful wife, and he wrapped a strong arm around Alfred's head and wept into his hair.

The Frankish princes were quiet, and the Frankish king stood watching, as did the Saxons, and the Roman servants. The room was crowded, but there was not a sound that reached Alfred's ears, but that of his father's quiet mourning.

"We have only been here for two days," Aethelwulf muttered. "When did it happen?"

"A week after your departure, my lord," Elderman Edgar whispered. "The winds were in our favor, and our journey was short. God surely sped us to your side." The Elderman of Somerset kept his voice low and grave. "As I was boarding the ship to bring you this sad news, a rider from the North came to us. Northumbria has been attacked again."

"Which kingdom rises against them?" Aethelwulf asked as he released Alfred and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Is it Mercia? East Anglia? The damned Picts?"

"Not a kingdom, lord," Edgar said. "But the wild men of the Far North. The sons of the ice giants. Or so they are called."

Alfred stopped listening to them. The words about his mother echoed in his mind as he laid down to sleep in the Vatican portico that night. The following morning, the Pope said a mass for the soul of Alfred's departed mother, and ten kings knelt and prayed for her soul, including Alfred's father, and King Charles of West Francia. The other kings were from many different nations, dressed in strange and interesting garb. One of them was the newly crowned Emperor of Rome, the nephew of King Charles, who was called Lothair the Second. They came forth with gifts of gold to donate to the church in the name of the Lady of Wessex.

Alfred sat next to his father and watched the Pope accept the gifts, and soon after the ceremony, Emperor Lothair and King Charles began to make their plans to travel back to their own kingdoms, and Charles pressed the bereft King of Wessex to join their caravan. Wulfheard was the first to take the king's ear.

"Your highness." Wulfheard whispered, but Alfred could hear him. "The King of West Francia has made a fine offer. We should travel with him by land. The men have asked me to beg of you that we do not make the return trip by sea."

"If it please your highness," the Elderman of Somerset interjected, "but there is a matter of urgency." Edgar furrowed his brow. "It will take …"

"Some of them will not return to the ship," Wulfheard insisted, raising his voice above Edgar's.

"What difference does it make now?" Aethelwulf demanded, growling louder than his advisors. "My wife is sealed in her tomb, is she not?"

"Yes, God rest her soul."

"God rest her soul." Aethelwulf barked as he signed himself with the cross.

Alfred, too, made the sign of the cross, touching his forehead, his chest, then each shoulder in turn, clasping his hands together to send a prayer to God for his mother.

"If we travel with the King of West Francia," Aethelwulf said, "we will be assured safety in our passage. His Imperial Grace, Lothair the Second, will be among the caravan until we reach the northern plains. No one and nothing would dare to attack us, and if they did, we would have two armies against them, along with a legion of our own Wessex blood."

Edgar grunted. "The journey will take months, and the pagans are …"

King Aethelwulf interrupted them. "The King of West Francia has proposed a marriage

union for my son, Aethelbald. Such a union could make our problems with the ice giants a matter of no concern. West Francia has enough bellows to give us a fresh sword to gut each one."

"Wessex needs you more than it needs steel, my lord," Edgar insisted. "Send me to Francia in your stead. With me can ride any man who is too cowardly to board the ships."

Wulfheard narrowed his eyes at Edgar.

"If God wills me to travel by sea, let Him send me a sign!" Aethelwulf bellowed, growing tired of the discussion. The Wessex king looked up to the ceiling as if God would appear. "Or else I go by land, WITH my faithful men!"

The elderman dared not press him further, and soon Emperor Lothair announced that they were leaving. Charles and Lothair were at an uneasy peace, impressed upon them by the new pope, to whom so many kings had traveled to pay their homage. Some, like Charles and Lothair, had come with grievances, and none were going away fully satisfied. The tension between the two royals was palpable as they rumbled out of the holy city the following week.

Aethelwulf had sent his men through Rome to procure wagons for the Saxons while he sent Edgar on a ship back to Wessex. The wagons were large and intricately carved, but Alfred soon saw that they were not near as fine, nor as numerous, as those belonging to Lothair, who headed the procession, nor the ones belonging to Charles, who followed. Alfred rode next to his father, and they rode behind the king and his estranged nephew emporer. Alfred compared the two; men of the same build, dark-haired and sharp-nosed, and could have been mistaken for brothers. As they rode through the city and into the rolling hills north of Rome, the discomfort between the two men could not be ignored.

"Aethelwulf," Charles slowed his horse to ride next to them. "Ride with me. Carloman," Charles called to his son. "Ride with Lord Alfred."

Carloman made a face to show his displeasure and turned his horse to step beside Alfred's while the two kings began to converse between themselves. The noise of the caravan made conversation difficult, but Alfred was determined to try.

"God be with you," Alfred said.

"What is your name?" Carloman asked. "Aelfric, is it?"

"Alfred."

"Stupid name either way. I do not like Saxons. I do not like you on our continent OR on your island. I wish you were all pushed into the sea, just as your ancestors pushed the Britons off the Earth."

Carloman kicked his horse to get away from Alfred, and into the enfold of his three elder brothers.

"There then, ride with us," Prince Charles comforted his brother. "Let Aelfric ride alone."

Princes Louis and Lothair laughed, glaring at Alfred who did, indeed, ride alone. Alfred missed his own brothers. He looked far ahead to where his father was speaking with the other king, then he looked behind them at the banners, which fluttered throughout the length of the caravan, starting with the deep purple fields of the banners of Rome, which displayed a large white cross, tailored with gold thread. The royal blue of West Francia was next in the parade, showing clearly the pecking order of the kings. The West Franciscans flag was graced with the golden embroidery of three fleur-de-lises. Alfred could turn in his saddled and look further back, and then he could see the flag bearing the lion of Wessex, flapping red and orange in the breeze.

Alfred was surrounded by papal guards everywhere that he rode. Peasants lined the streets and the fields to watch them pass by, but he only caught glimpses of them between the walls of guards. The progress of the caravan was painfully slow, and Alfred was glad to get out of his saddle for the night. He sat down to watch the servants build fires and saw, in the soft glow of the retreating sunlight, that crowds of peasants had come begging at the edges of the camp. Alfred saw them, starving and dirty, held back by the guards. And the following morning they were still there.

Bishop Wihtred found Alfred sitting next to his fire and settled in beside him.

"Wihtred," Alfred consulted him. "Do they want money? Or jewels?" He fingered a red-onyx ring that sparkled on his hand. "If I give this to them …"

"They have no need of jewels, my lord. Oh, but the Lord has blessed you with a charitable heart. These people beg for bread. Everything that our host does not consume, we will leave for them this morning. That is why they follow. After they have food, they will go home, and others will follow us to the next site."

Alfred felt pained by their haunting, hollow eyes. He thought he saw some of the same people at several sites, but as they traveled into the mountainous foothills, the commoners were left behind. Alfred's first view of the Alps was more amazing than anything the City of Rome had to offer. He could not believe the immensity of the snow-capped peaks, and he could not imagine how they were going to get over them. The range of mountains stretched as far as his eye could see on either side, and Emperor Lothair was leading them into the center.

"Father …"

Aethelwulf smiled at his son. "I know, Alfred."

The royals moved faster than the wagons, but they had to stop every few furlongs to wait for the wagons to catch up with them. Alfred had thought the mountain range looked immense from a distance, but he had not realized how far he was from it. They spent a full day traveling to the foothills before they stopped for the night and camped at the base of the first mountain.

"We start tomorrow at first light," Emperor Lothair informed them.


	6. Chapter 6

The horns blew and the sound bellowed through the hall. Ragnar walked outside, leaving Guthrum to get Ivar and haul him to his feet. The elder brother stood still while his little brother pulled himself up onto his back, and Guthrum carried him into the sunlight.

"Ships are arriving," Ragnar grinned. "Our messenger made it with the good news that we have a new land."

"Who will be on the ships?" Guthrum wondered out loud.

Casks of ale were brought out to the beach, and cups were filled as fires were built and songs of the Old Country commenced. Guthrum set his brother down on a log as they watched the small dots on the horizon grow larger until they materialized into dragon-headed longboats. The ships were carved with gruesome, grinning beast-faces meant to terrify any malevolent force that might seek to harm the ship or the men aboard it. Guthrum marveled at the large number of them, rolling toward the land like a dark wave.

"So many," Ivar said, a laugh dancing in his voice.

"Perhaps my beautiful wife," one of the men, Hothar, hoped as they all wondered who would be aboard. "We have four fine daughters, young Guthrum." Hothar winked, then laughed and turned back to watch the distant ships. "If your father was willing to pay enough for one of them." Guthrum glared at the man, as he was not yet interested in the thought of marriage. "Are you blushing, Guthrum?" Hothar grinned.

"What are you doing to the leader's son?" a dark-bearded, drunken, and very happy man called Tabor cut into the scene, relishing the warm fire and swigging from his cup. "Are you teasing the boy? Is that because he's never touched a woman's tits?"

"If you touch my daughters'," Hothar reeled on Guthrum.

Guthrum rolled his eyes and looked away from them.

"You might hope he touches one of your daughters," Tabor suggested. "A man could do worse for a son-in-law. Guthrum is going to be the leader himself one day, aren't you, Red?"

Hothar scoffed, "Guthrum doesn't want to be a clan leader. You want to be a farmer, don't you? Too much fighting and warring in leadership."

"The road to manhood begins with touching a girl's tits!" Tabor announced. "If you're a leader or leatherworker, no matter!"

Several others cheered and raised their mugs, including the drunken women within earshot. There were not very many women, only those who had struck out on the original pillaging journey. The women were warriors, though most of them had found a man to couple with and some even had small children.

Guthrum shook his head to dispel the teasing.

"Perhaps my cousin and his whole following," one of the men mused. "That would make a fine addition to the brave men already here."

"Hear, hear!"

"Not to dishonor the brave men," Ragnar announced, "but I hope that every ship holds a siren, and each beauty ready to be plucked as soon as she steps off the ship!"

The men and women cheered and laughed. The Norse men outnumbered the Norse women to such a degree that many of the men had taken Saxon mistresses. They were little more than slaves, but some of them were pregnant, which elevated their status, if only slightly. Guthrum did not want to marry a Saxon, and he knew that one day he would be married to someone, so he also held out hope that beautiful daughters would be arriving, even if he did not want to marry one yet.

The ships drew close enough that Guthrum could make out individual carvings, and the men around him shouted the names of sailors when they, too, recognized one of the dragon-face figureheads snarling before the prow of a ship.

"HAGAR!" shouted Ragnar, laughing and slapping the backs of the men around him. "Guthrum! It is your Uncle Hagar!"

Guthrum saw a sandy-bearded man at the hull of a familiar ship, and he knew his uncle. He hurried to gather Ivar onto his back, and they rushed down the shore with their father. Guthrum shifted the weight of his brother, holding the boy's thighs under his forearms.

"A beautiful sight," Ragnar grinned. "The beginning of my very own kingdom. Be ready, Guthrum, for the day will come that I shall find a worthy adversary, and I will die in the glory of battle, and my kingdom on Midgard shall be left to your care while I am feasting at the table of the All-Father. I will wait for you there, my sons. And I will be disappointed if I do not see you."

"We will die well, Father," Guthrum and Ivar spoke in unison.

They had always said it, but on that day Guthrum wondered if his brother was going to be able to keep his promise. If Ivar's legs were permanently bent, he would never be able to fight. If he was not able to fight, he would have to find another way to win a glorious death, and the choices were gruesome.

The bright day made the landing easy, and Ragnar and his sons watched the boats glide gracefully into the shallows where the men jumped out and splashed into the water. They did not lose any ships, despite the natural heavy break of the beach, where anchoring was not possible. The warriors lifted the boats and carried them onto the shore, and Guthrum carried Ivar as they walked along the beach to greet the new arrivals.

"Remember the welcome we got on these beaches," Ivar mused, and his brother and father laughed.

"My very own sister!" Ragnar announced as they came to Hagar's boat.

Rayna climbed over the gunwale of the beached ship and dropped to the ground. She hugged her brother and laughed, but more with relief than merriment. "Thank All-Father that we are on solid ground again. The storms were incredible."

"You are welcome here, and we have enough land to give to your children for their futures."

Rayna smiled at her brother and then turned to help her son, Halfdene, and her daughter, Audhild, over the side of the boat. Hagar made his way from the rear, where he had been helping to carry the ship, and embraced Ragnar. They held onto one another for a long moment. "Good to see you, my brother," Hagar muttered.

Ragnar grinned and slapped him on the back. "I have a fire blazing for you, and mead already poured."

"I would expect no less."

Guthrum stepped forward to greet his cousin, who was his own age. He wrapped one arm around Halfdene while still holding his brother on his back with the other arm. Ivar stiffened his grip around Guthrum's shoulders and held his own weight for a moment, then Guthrum let go of Halfdene, and Ivar settled back onto his older brother's strong arms.

"What is this?" Halfdene studied Ivar.

"There is something wrong with my legs," Ivar informed him, as if it were not a large concern.

"Let me take him from you." Rayna scooped Ivar from Guthrum's back.

"But I want …"

"You can come with us," Rayna informed the complaining Ivar as she cradled him in her arms and held him to her bosom.

Audhild glanced back at her brother, who stood still and slightly shaking. He did not watch his family follow Ragnar up the hill, but just stood and looked at the men moving the boats. Guthrum stood with him, and watched him as his shiver grew worse, and his face grew pale with some distant thought that only Halfdene could see as his eyes crept back to the vast expanse of the sea. The beach was filled with the sounds of grunting men carrying the heavy boats, which were filled with weapons and, in some cases, families, out of the water and onto the beach where they placed them and began to unload. Guthrum saw several women and a half dozen children, all jubilant as they trekked through the sandy beach and up the hill.

"You are shaking," Guthrum said, cutting through the heavy silence between them. The sun was bright, and high in the sky, but his cousin shivered almost uncontrollably. "Are you sick?"

"No." Halfdene shook his head and looked back at the sea with hollow eyes.

"Did you see Jormungund in the waves?" Guthrum whispered, and the memory of his own crossing tugged at his mind. He remembered being submerged and feeling as if he were lost to a watery grave.

"There was only one storm." Halfdene whispered. "I never saw the beast." He stared out at the water like he was searching for ghosts. "One of the ships went down." Halfdene whispered to the distance. "The storm hit. The ship was next to ours, and then suddenly, it was gone. There was no sign of it, no men, no mast. Nothing. It was there, and then it was not."

Guthrum watched his cousin recalling the horror. There were no words that he could offer, and he did not want to recount his own experience of having gone into the water. He tried to block the memory that persisted in his mind. But Halfdene was still haunted, and he shivered again, all over his body, as if he were freezing to death.

"There was a boy … A boy on our ship." Halfdene said, and his voice sounded otherworldly as he spoke.

Jubilant travelers walked past them, laughing and talking as they made their way up the beach, but Halfdene did not see them, he was still focused on the distant horizon.

"What happened to the boy?" Guthrum asked, knowing that he did not want to know the answer.

"A slave boy," Halfdene said. "He was taken by some of the men of the ship, and on the journey, he was … had … by them. My mother turned me and my sister away, and my father said that it was the way of men sometimes. I did not look, but I heard the boy crying out. It had to have been terrible for him. And he cried at night, and they beat him for crying."

Halfdene shivered, and he remembered the feel of the rain that had poured down on him as he saw, through strobes of lightning, the ship that was right next to theirs and with the next strobe of light it was gone. Vanished. The men on his own ship started yelling, fearing the great sea serpent was among their fleet. Halfdene's eyes burned at the memories of what came next.

"Only Thor can intervene for us!" Hagar shouted to the people on the ship. Most of them were warriors, some women, some mothers and only three children, including Halfdene, his little sister, and the pathetic slave boy who huddled in the prow of the ship, glad to be forgotten by the vicious and rapacious men. "As Jormungund has swallowed our brothers and their ship, whole," Hagar announced to them. They looked up at him with rain soaking their faces and stinging their eyes. "We must offer a sacrifice!"

"A sacrifice?" Rayna was shocked at the suggestion. "What, husband? We have no animals aboard!"

"A human sacrifice, to Thor," Hagar insisted.

Rayna felt tears burning in her eyes, and she gathered her son and daughter close to her chest.

"That boy." Hagar pointed to the pitiful, small mass at the prow, and the boy threw off his blankets, as if he was going to run from them. "It is his destiny," Hagar insisted. "Take him."

Men grabbed hold of him, and he squealed with fear, calling for his mother and imploring the women on the boat. The prayers began, and everyone on the ship raised their arms above the heads and crossed their forearms into an X, the sign of Thor. The boy screamed, blubbered, and begged.

Halfdene said the prayers, as if the boy was no more than a goat, and then they were quiet, and they all watched. The boy was taken, kicking, screaming, wailing as they lifted him over the gunwale. He grasped and gripped their arms as they held him over the side, over the pointed waves.

"No! Please!" the boy screamed, and the sound echoed through Halfdene's brain. The slave's fear gripped Halfdene's heart. And then the men shook his grip from their arms, and he latched onto the side of the boat. They pried his fingers loose while he yelled, and then the screaming stopped. The storm continued to rage.

"It did not WORK," cried one of the women as the entire boat tipped dangerously to the side. "The storm persists!"

Hagar gripped the lines at the prow of the ship and faced the storm head on. "WE HAVE SACRIFICED FOR YOU, THOR! GOD OF THUNDER AND STORMS! GOD OF STRENGTH AND RESILIENCE! THE BOY IS FOR YOU SO THAT YOU CAN USE HIM TO CALM THE SEA SERPENT THAT PLAGUES US!"

A head-on wind blew the ship straight up, and Halfdene feared that it would tumble backward, and land upside down in the raging ocean. But they went down prow first, and splashed hard into the sea, and Halfdene was lifted from his seat and nearly thrown into the water, but his mother grabbed him in her strong arms and hugged him to her bosom, holding him fast.

"Thor asks for the other boy," suggested one of the men on the ship.

Halfdene was the only other boy. They turned their eyes on him, and his mother held him so tight that his face turned blue.

"HAGAR!" Rayna screamed to him, and the men moved out of the way so that Hagar could reach his family on the long, narrow ship. Halfdene looked up at his father, and his mother loosened her grip, because she trusted her husband, as did Halfdene, until his father's face changed into a mask of unrecognizable fury, and he lunged down, grabbed Halfdene's arms, and pulled him from his mother.

"NO!" Rayna screamed.

The entire boat was in an uproar now. Many of the people on the boat respected Halfdene's mother, or were loyal to her brother Ragnar, and they protested the harm of the boy in any way. Others were loyal to Hagar, and they believed him if he was so serious that he was willing to sacrifice his own son to save them.

Halfdene almost cried out, but instead he clamped his mouth shut and looked his father in the eyes. Hagar pulled the boy all the way from his mother's reach, and she dared not stand up and let go of her daughter as the calamity reached its pitch. Halfdene did not make a sound, but locked eyes with his father, and Hagar stopped just as he was about to hand the boy over to his executioners.

"This is what Thor wants, my son," Hagar explained, while a hint of sorrow crept into his eyes.

"I am not afraid, Father," Halfdene told him, but tears were mingling with the rain that covered his face.

"Wait!" Rayna insisted. "The sea is calming!"

The wind whipped her words away from them, but the winds were becoming steady, blowing from the east instead of every direction at once.

"The previous sacrifice was all that was needed! Spare your son!" Rayna shouted, and the rest of the boat went quiet as they all assessed the storm.

Hagar paused with his son in his arms, watching the waves settle all around them, and then the clouds broke, and the sun arrived. And Halfdene began to shake, but he kept his lips firm, even though his face had gone pale.

Halfdene stood on the rocky beach, still amazed that he was alive, still unsure if it had all been a dream, because no one spoke of the peasant boy again, and it was as if he had never existed. Halfdene looked at his cousin, trying to break the spell that the sea had on him. Throughout the journey Halfdene had imagined that the boy's spirit clung in death to the side of the ship, following them like bad luck all the way to the new island.

"He screamed the whole way in." Halfdene told Guthrum. "I could hear him screaming even after he was under the waves and inside of the serpent's belly. His scream was on the wind."

"He did not die well." Guthrum surmised, and they both looked out at the water with pity in their hearts. "He will not live well in the afterlife."

Halfdene shook his head. "In the sleet castle of Hel, down by the roots of Yggdrasill, is where he will spend his eternity, feeling the tortures that he endured during his life for the rest of time."

Guthrum glanced back at the hall. The beach was nearly cleared of travelers, and the men who had committed the rape and murder of the slave boy were within his father's hall, warming themselves with fire and drink.


	7. Chapter 7

Alfred was immune to the drudge work of the squires, cooks, and servants, who all bustled around the camp, setting hearth fires and organizing animals and equipment. He watched the emperor walk through the camp, barking orders, while Alfred remained cuddled beneath his blankets. When he woke the next morning, the hearth fires were low, and he was huddled and shivering, pressed against his father. Alfred opened his eyes in time to see the sunlight break against the side of the mountain range. He looked up at the impossible task before them, and he kept looking up, but he could not see the peak of the mountain, only a haze of clouds and snow.

"How old are these passes?" Alfred asked.

"As old as the mountains," his father told him. "No one knows who carved them, but men have always used them."

They got into their saddles and the squires started hitching up the ox teams. Alfred wondered how the heavy wagons could be pulled up the steep mountain trails. He heard the men yelling to one another as his horse got in the single file line behind the princes of West Francia. Alfred dared not glance back because, as they began to climb, the path was narrow, and his father was far ahead of him. He looked down as they reached the first switch back, and he looked out over the plains and saw the hills where they had crossed from the south. As the path turned, he again saw the soldiers below them, attaching ropes to the wagons.

Alfred followed in a line behind King Charles' sons, not able to see his own father in front of him, nor Bishop Wihtred behind him. The wind blew stiff as they climbed, and the temperature dropped. Alfred shuddered, and pulled a wolf skin blanket from his saddle bag and wrapped it around his shoulders. The snow line presented itself in patches at first, but within a few steps, the horses were ankle-deep in frozen precipitation. The soldiers were far below them, shouting out to one another in the distance.

As they traveled, Alfred's stomach rumbled, insisting that midday was behind the thick clouds. He pulled some dry meat from the pouch around his waist and gnawed at it, first softening a piece with his teeth, then ripping it, and then he spent several minutes chewing the single bite. He wondered if his father was also having his meal on his horse's back, or if he was determined to wait until they made camp. Alfred looked ahead of them, where the path became even more jagged and winding.

Their horses filed into a narrow pass and the wind became more persistent and blew through the pass as if it were trying to blow them backwards. Alfred could not speak to anyone, not even the boy in front of him, who was Carloman, nor the Frankish archbishop who rode behind him, wearing a grim expression on his old, gray face.

Alfred heard a shout from the soldiers, which echoed up the pass, followed by a loud crash, the neighing of horses, and more shouts of men. Alfred looked back, but there was nothing that he could see from where he sat in the long line of the convoy. The mountain pressed in on both sides and Alfred worried about falling rocks and landslides. He closed his eyes, trusting Cloud to keep the path while he prayed.

The sky grew darker and the air colder, but still they were going up. Alfred had been in the saddle all day and his bottom was sore. He had no chances to make water, and the rocking motion of the horse became steadily more uncomfortable as they pressed on. Snow blew down from the mountain and stung Alfred's face. He pulled a lamb wool blanket from his pack and wrapped it around the wolf skin and lowered his head against the weather as Cloud trudged on. The snow was as high as the horse's knees, but the path was well-churned as the emperor, the kings, and the other princes had gone before him. Alfred leaned down over the neck of his horse to gather some of its body heat, and Cloud did not mind the draping of his blanket covering his shoulders. Alfred closed his eyes and put his nose against Cloud's mane, praying that they would be over the mountain soon, and that they would all be safe, and that all the soldiers behind them were safe.

Snow filled the beards of the kings, and Alfred shivered beneath his wolf skin and lamb wool. His belly insisted on something better than dried meat, and his bladder was aching for a break, but they pressed on, into the gathering darkness of the evening. Alfred was near tears before they reached the summit of the pass. He did not realize that it was the summit because it was not graced with an encompassing view, but instead walls of rock on either side.

As they reached the top, the company in front of Alfred began to slow, and he knew that they were going to stop for the night. 'Finally,' Alfred groaned to himself, and slid off his horse. As he sank thigh-deep into the snow, he regretted his choice. Leading his horse toward the shelter took a long time because the pass was so narrow that they had to move one at a time. Alfred made his way to a rock enclosure where he shivered and the squires hurried to unpack, tether, and cover his horse with blankets so that Cloud would not freeze to death in the night. The horses were given water before the people, and Alfred took the opportunity to take care of his personal ablutions before rushing back to his father's side.

They woke early in the morning and stretched the cold out of their bones, building the fires high to warm themselves through before they had to get back into their saddles. Alfred took his place in the line behind Carloman, and they spent another day traveling. That day, Alfred voided his bladder into an empty wine cask as he rode, which he cast off the side of the mountain, and which disappeared long before it found ground. Alfred gulped, and could not shake the imagined feeling of falling all that way, knowing for minutes that the crushing end was rushing ever closer. He had a longing for solid ground and an absolute fear that he might meet it at such speed. He shivered, and turned his face forward, burying his nose in the horse's mane for several hours.

Cloud frothed and neighed, objecting to the harsh conditions, and wanting to head back down, but there would not have been a place to turn a horse, even if the path behind him were clear. He looked back, and on the steep mountain pass, he could see the emperor's army and clergy, then the Frankish court, clergy, and army, and somewhere far in the distance where the snow blighted his view, Alfred knew that his father's men were bringing up the rear.

That night they camped at a plateau where the air was thin, and Alfred's ears were pained. Two of the horses froze to death in the night, and the men cooked them before they continued the next day. Alfred was relieved to be going downhill, but then they had to climb again, and up and down they rode for most of the day, then up and up, well into the evening until they were forced to stop, or risk falling off the mountain in the dark. Alfred did not dismount, but draped his blankets over himself and his horse, and they slept uneasily together throughout the night. The scream of a man woke him, and Alfred learned that one of the soldiers had rolled off his horse in his sleep and had fallen to his death. As soon as the sun rose the following morning, and they found that they far above the clouds, the caravan began moving again.

Alfred cried for the pain in his legs from riding for so long, and his tears iced, and froze to his face. He longed to see his father, but it was not until evening that they found an appropriate place to break for camp. Alfred got out of his saddle as soon as the path widened enough for him to stand next to his horse. He ran to the fire and leaned in so close that the flames licked and burned him. King Aethelwulf pulled him back, and into his arms where the heat of his body warmed the little boy, and Alfred sighed with relief and fell asleep instantly.

The following day was filled with the descent from the mountain, which was more frightening than the climb because Alfred had a better view of where he might fall if his horse slipped. They came out of the clouds before midday, and the snow melted away shortly after that. During the second day of descent, the path widened, and they rode two abreast. Alfred rode next to an Italian cleric, who made no effort to speak to him, but Alfred was relieved that he was not riding with Prince Carloman. The rest of the downward climb was the most gradual of the whole adventure, and the mountains of Italy gave way to wide open plains of rocky fields, and harsh, arid landscape. From a great height, Alfred could see a building along the road with an inviting column of smoke billowing from its front door, promising warmth and a fresh cooked meal.

"This is good," sighed the cleric who rode next to Alfred.

Alfred looked at him. "Whose house is that?"

"It belongs to the Emperor."

Alfred was awash with relief at the thought of sleeping indoors. Servants met them in the courtyard and helped Alfred off his horse. As he slid from the weary beast, Alfred heard a commotion, and looked to see the sons of Charles berating a young stable boy. Without thought, Alfred started toward them, wondering what misunderstanding could have upset the four brothers so severely.

Prince Charles grabbed the servant by the arms, and Prince Louis punched him in the gut just as Alfred made his way to them. Louis, being twice the age and size of Alfred, glared at the intruder. "Go on," he commanded. "Mind your own business."

Alfred was undeterred. "What has he done that you treat him so?" he asked.

"I said go on!" Louis insisted.

Prince Lothair stepped forward and pushed Alfred, forcing him to stumble back several paces. Alfred was shocked. He had never been handled so rough in his life. Louis punched the servant in the face, causing a trickle of blood along the side of his mouth. Alfred was horrified.

"Stop it!" Alfred insisted, raising his voice to warn any adults who might be close by. "This is NOT princely behavior!"

"We said go!" Prince Carloman yelled in his face.

"Unhand that boy!" Alfred started toward them again, certain that an adult would arrive soon. But Carloman stepped in front of him.

Alfred was so full of righteous anger that he pushed Carloman's shoulder to move him out of the way. He was surprised by his own behavior, and surprised that it had been so long since he had seen an adult.

Without a voice of reason to stop it, Alfred realized that he was in the middle of a melee. The elder princes were not going to tolerate Alfred pushing their brother, and they dropped the servant to turn their malicious eyes on him. Alfred watched the servant scurry away into the darkness of the barn, and he braced himself.

"You think you can get away with pushing Prince Carloman?" Louis asked, leering over Alfred.

"We shall show you some Franciscan manners," Lothair promised.

Charles leapt forward and grabbed Alfred, just as he had decided to run. His legs scrambled uselessly beneath him and Charles dropped him to the ground.

"What is this here?" A voice came from behind the Frankish princes.

Knowing that they were in the wrong, the older two princes jumped up and ran at the sound of an adult voice, and the younger two scampered to follow. Alfred watched them scatter, surprised. He looked at the shadows where the boy had run and a man materialized, but he was no one of importance by the scraggly look of him. The servant boy was right behind the man, wiping blood from his nose.

"Is he well enough?" Alfred asked, looking at the boy with concern.

"Marcus is a foolish child," the man said. "My family thanks my lord for speaking for him. My apologies for your own ill treatment. I fear this incident falling to the ears of the Emperor." The man looked down at the ground. "I fear that Marcus will be blamed for the trouble, and maybe killed."

"I will speak the truth if it comes to that," Alfred promised.

Wihtred gasped from the courtyard. "My lord!" he exclaimed as he hurried to Alfred's side. "I beg of you, no more running off!"

"I did not mean to worry you, Wihtred," Alfred said. "This boy fell and was hurt."

Wihtred nodded to the servants, then turned Alfred toward the hall where the smell of fresh bread filled their noses and Alfred's stomach growled. The cooks gave him fruit, and he stretched his tired legs while the travelers around him went to unpacking and organizing the small space which was crammed with people. The servants who cared for the house helped the servants who cared for the travelers, and soon the place was set up to accommodate the emperor and two kings, and dinner was served.

Alfred ate hot stew and fresh bread and sat close to the blazing fire. Wihtred offered to read to the house while they ate and Alfred was happy to hear his voice, and the sound of familiar Latin phrases. The servants brought blankets, and the dinner was cleared away. One of the servants sang, and another recited poetry to entertain the royal families, but Charles' sons jeered at the performers while Alfred tried to ignore the interruptions. Late into the night, after the drinking had made the kings thick and slow, the Franciscan princes started yelling at the performers abusively.

"Let me show you something." An old man stepped forward with a dusty, ancient book in his hands, trying to distract the rowdy youngsters.

"What could you have to show us that we have never seen?" asked Prince Louis.

The old man smiled at him, and the room grew quiet with anticipation. "The Great Charlemagne himself." The old man ran a hand over the book as he presented it for their inspection. "He stayed here many times. You can still see his very signature. Would you like to look at it?"

Alfred leaned forward, excited. The Emperor, as well as the King of West Francia, had long ago marveled over the scrawled signature, and they sat back to watch the children, and to delight in their discovery. King Aethelwulf, too, inspected the signature, reverently touching the edge of the page where the great man had written his name. Alfred signed himself with the cross, and the atmosphere of the house mellowed. The servants went to their beds, and the royals settled into the straw by the hearth.

The wagons took a further four days to cross over the Alps, and Alfred and his father stayed with King Charles and Emperor Lothair while they waited. The air was thick with animosity between uncle and nephew, and Alfred did not fully understand their disagreement. He thought that land, undoubtedly, was the root of their problem, because that was most important to kings. The two feuding men took many separate hunting trips throughout those painstaking days, and when they were together every word was balanced on a blade's edge.

Alfred was relieved when he saw the wagons making their slow descent down the more-gentle side of the mountain. He was the first to spot them, and he ran out to meet the soldiers while horns blew from the house behind him, and the captain smiled, looking glad to be on flat ground.

"We heard a crash on the first day, going up the south side." Alfred panted when he reached them and fell in step beside the captain.

"Aye, there was a crash," the weary man admitted. "You will hear tell of it soon enough."

The captain had to bring the news to the King of West Francia first, and Alfred stood beside his father as they all learned that one of King Charles' gold-gilded and treasure-filled wagons had fallen off the mountain, so far that the soldiers could not even see its resting place. They had lost four oxen, and three of their horses had frozen in the pass. Charles ranted, and screamed at the soldiers for their carelessness. His face grew red and ugly, and Alfred leaned against his father while Charles continued to berate the captain, and then he turned on the servants, and then he screamed at the squires. Alfred could not imagine that anything in the wagon could have been so important.

The soldiers and the beasts of burden were given only a night to rest before Lothair commanded them all back onto the trail. The following morning found them in their saddles early and traveling for most of the day. The sun was dipping in the west before they came to the next hostel along the road. The houses were spaced every fifteen miles and held the sole purpose of helping pilgrims who traveled the road to Rome. As they followed the well-defined highway, the landscape changed, and the fields became greener, and the air thicker. The sun shined bright in Northern Italy as midday blazed above them.

"Hold!" called Lothair, who stopped his horse in the middle of the plain.

Alfred sidled up next to his father, feeling that something was wrong.

"For what do we wait?" King Charles asked.

Alfred's mount shifted on its feet, sensing something that the young lord could not yet feel. When he saw them in the distance, they darkened the horizon. As they came closer, the ground began to rumble and shake beneath the mass of them.

"Father …" Alfred pointed.

The battalions trotted toward them, covering the hillside as they moved in. Purple banners snapped in the wind, and weapons glittered in the light of the noon sun. Alfred was not afraid until he saw the Saxon men tighten their group around Aethelwulf, and they all put their hands on the hilts of their short swords. Wulfheard unsheathed his sword, turning it so that the light bounced off the steel and reflected at those advancing.

"Father …"

"It is a show, Alfred," Aethelwulf assured him.

Emperor Lothair looked back at King Charles. "This is where we part our ways. Because you are my uncle, you will have safe passage through the western part of my realm, but only to make your way through to your own kingdom. There is little guarantee that I can give you that my brothers will not attack, nor roving peasants and what-not, so I bid you travel quickly. Leave your caravan behind and let it catch up with you after you have arrived safely in West Francia. My guards will escort you."

The Emperor rode away from them, and many of his guards followed, but many others remained, and compelled Charles to move on with haste. They were escorted for the days that it took to pass through the empire, and the Emperor's men kept them at a steady pace. Alfred looked back to see the wagons disappear, and by the time they reached the next hostel, the caravan was far behind. Alfred was not worried about the few possessions that he might have in a wagon somewhere, but for Charles it was a matter of consternation. Alfred was more concerned about the fact that only one lion banner fluttered within sight, carried by King Aethelwulf's personal squire. Only a dozen blue banners, Alfred noted, but he could not count the purple banners, as the riders moved and shifted like waves on a sea that surrounded him on all sides.

Alfred could feel an increase in the speed of their group as they got closer. He knew the border had finally been reached when he saw a large patch of blue swathed across the green landscape. Horses and Frankish soldiers, draped in royal blue cloth, stood in a line at the border, shining with jewels, weapons, and the gold fleur-de-lis embroidered on their banners, which fluttered from every tree and pole that they could see.

The horses-dressed-in-blue stepped aside to make an opening in the formidable line, and King Charles rode through it, leading the way into his homeland and away from his nephew's oppressive army. Trumpets called out to announce their arrival, and a man in a magnificent glistening helm rode to the front of the Franks.

"God be praised that you are home safe, my liege," the man announced.

"The Lord has doubtless watched over us. It is good to be back," Charles answered.

"We have set up a tent for your comfort, my lord." The man in the glistening helm led them to a large, blue tent, filled with pillows and food.

Alfred fell on a pillow and the Frankish princes laid near him. The boys slept and when they woke, they ate, and then they slept again. They waited for two days for the wagons to reach them, at which time Charles took a quick inventory of his treasure, and then he smiled for the first time that Alfred had seen on their long journey.

"My good King Aethelwulf," Charles said, suddenly light-hearted. "Shall we ride?"


	8. Chapter 8

They kicked their horses into a steady gait and thundered away from the camp. Alfred could feel the ground rumbling beneath them as they sped forward, unhindered, their views no longer blocked by soldiers and bolts of purple cloth. Alfred could see the rolling, velvet-green hills of West Francia, and the white, manicured trees that marked each side of the road for the entire length of it.

Charles took them to a sprawling manor house to be received. Rome had been grander, but in West Francia, Alfred was less supervised, and he explored every one of the seven rooms that the building had to offer. There was even a small cellar dug out under the pantry, which Alfred inspected as well. They spent a few days in the manor house, and King Charles entertained them with minstrels and acrobats, animal tamers, and a lavish feast that lasted throughout the day. Alfred marveled at jewel-encrusted cups, and gold-spun tapestries which decorated the house, as well as the luxurious fur coats and velvet shoes that decorated the people.

As they rode further west, Alfred could see the seabirds and hear their calls before he smelled the river or saw the walls of Paris. They crested the hill and Alfred saw it for the first time, laid out before him like a dream. He had not known that Paris was an island, and he marveled at the magnificent bridges that connected it to the mainland on either side of the river. The walls were like those that surrounded Rome, but thicker. Archers stood atop the walls at ready intervals, and crowds lined the streets to welcome their king home from his pilgrimage.

Alfred was amazed at the looming presence of the city as they came close. The roads inside the walls were packed with people, and the city guards were holding them back from crushing the royal procession. The people cheered and threw flowers at the feet of their horses. Alfred saw pretty girls trying to catch the attention of the elder Frankish princes. One of the young girls blew a kiss in Alfred's direction and he was so shocked that he blushed, causing many in the crowd to laugh.

The hall was bigger than any of the vills they had seen in West Francia so far, and Alfred was excited at the prospect of counting the rooms. They dismounted in the courtyard and left their horses outside, even though the ceilings were very high, and easily could have accommodated a horse and rider. Alfred wondered if the hall had been built by the ancient Romans, as the building techniques seemed advanced. He wandered away from his father while looking up at the ceiling, gravitating toward a stone staircase. He realized too late that he was being pressed by people on all sides as the servants rushed to greet their king.

Alfred fought his way through the crowd, being almost suffocated among the skirts of the women around him. He spied his father between the throng of expensively dyed fabrics that filled his view, and he pushed a woman out of his way to get to the dais as the sound of voices grew around him. The people became jubilant in their celebration when they saw their king, and cheers erupted all around. Alfred got to the front of the crowd and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Her royal highness," shouted an announcer. "The daughter of Charles, King of West Francia, Princess Judith."

Alfred was grabbed by the back of the neck. "Watch it, peasant!" hissed a servant woman from behind him, pinching his neck painfully. "The princess is entering!"

Alfred stood stock still because the pinch hurt, and any movement on his part was going to make it worse. He looked where everyone else was looking, at the doorway through which Princess Judith was walking. She was older than Louis, but still a child, a pretty girl with hair like corn silk, and skin as pale as the moon. Alfred noted his own brown tunic, still dirty from travel, so unrefined that the Parisian servants would call him a peasant.

Chatter rose up in the hall, mostly in the voices of women exclaiming their admiration for the princess's new dress and jewelry. Judith crossed the room with great import, a trail of well-dressed, brightly ornamented women following her. She walked to the dais where the two kings were seated and dropped a curtsy that lowered her face almost to the floor.

"Father."

She spoke in a gentle voice that could only be heard because everyone in the hall had fallen silent. Alfred watched her turn to King Aethelwulf, and she trembled at the sight of him. He was hairy, gruff, and covered in his traditional furs, which appeared uncivilized to the people of the continent, who had learned to dress in silk and cotton weave.

Prince Louis was announced, followed Princes Charles, Lothair, and Carloman. Then came two younger sisters, and the announcer recognized the youngest prince, who was napping in his mother's arms.

Alfred's neck was released and he turned back to glare at the old woman, to know her face before he ran to the dais to stand next to his father's chair, where he leaned against Aethelwulf's arm so that everyone in the room would know who he was, even though the announcer did not say his name.

A line of well-dressed lords stepped up to the dais to give gifts to King Charles, and some were so affluent that they were also able to produce gifts for King Aethelwulf on short notice. When the last gift was given and the last salutation said, a great table laden with food was carried to them and the servants brought benches for the children. Alfred was placed next to his father because none of his older brothers were present, while King Charles first son, Louis, sat next to his father, and his brothers sat according to their ages before the girls were seated, starting with Judith and descending to the youngest.

"A drink of my finest wine." King Charles flourished his hand as he smiled to his guests.

Aethelwulf accepted a glass goblet of deep purple liquid while Alfred dug into boiled eggs, which were served as a first course.

"I would make you an offer," Aethelwulf proposed.

Charles raised one eyebrow.

"Have you betrothed your eldest daughter yet?" Aethelwulf asked.

Charles swished the wine in his goblet. "A marriage to unite our two nations. My daughter Judith and your heir, Aethelbald? Then she would become the lady of your land after your eldest son assumes the throne. Do you think this would strengthen West Francia's position in the world? After all, we do not know how many years that will take."

"No. I suggest she become the wife of the ruler of Wessex quite a bit sooner."

Charles eyes snapped up. "You would make her … YOUR queen?" He chuckled into his hand. "I have heard that you have many children. That you have filled the island with your own bastards." He held his wine goblet out and a servant rushed forth to fill it. "My daughter is not a farm girl to be," he considered his words. "Conquered by her sovereign, my friend. Her blood is of the most royal, I dare say, on Earth. She and her children will be destined to rule over nations. To give her to a man as old as you …"

"You are a man with dozens of enemies," Aethelwulf informed him. "It may serve you well to have some family members who do not howl for your blood, as your nephews might do."

"There are few things more dangerous than my nephews," Charles sneered.

"I am fortunate enough not to be afflicted with any family but my own sons. My kingdom could be a haven across the channel, for my wife as well as her father."

"The Britwaldas will not be pleased, after your first wife has only just passed."

"We have not been Britwalda for generations," Aethelwulf said, offended by the word. The title of Britwalda had been an honor to Aethelwulf's great-grandfather, but it was a position subservient to the wishes of the King of West Francia. "The kings of Wessex have been anointed since the days of my grandfather, blessed by the Pope."

Charles rolled his eyes to the ceiling and set his goblet down with a thud of irriation.

"Our kinship runs deep." Aethelwulf banged his fist on the table, clattering dishes and cutlery. "Let us solidify it with a marriage."

"And what would her children inherit? You have a grown son, and four more sons behind him. I myself am the son of a marriage that came late in my father's life, and I have had to fight for every birthright I have obtained. And I can never STOP fighting, lest they drown me." He flourished his bejeweled, glittering hand through the air as if to indicate everything in the room.

"Three," Aethelwulf corrected. "I have three sons behind my eldest. My son, Aethelstan, died young."

"And your island," Charles sighed, "has been beset by pagans from the North. What guarantee could you give me of my daughter's safety? I would not see my own daughter become the object of a pagan plot to extort you."

"Surely the pagans would find one of my sons more profitable than a girl." Aethelwulf said. "And she is no safer from pagans in Paris than she would be in Canterbury. Except that she would not be the daughter of a king, but the wife of a king."

Charles tapped his chin. "Would you make her your co-regent?"

Aethelwulf froze. "My …"

"Would you share your throne and equal power with her? Would you recognize that, even though she is a girl, she is a Carolingian royal, and therefore should be seated alongside a heathen king?"

"I am no heathen, your highness." Aethelwulf's cheeks heated and his neck grew red with restrained indignation. "I have been a Christian since before my birth, since King Ine was baptized a hundred years ago."

"Forgive me," Charles said, hiding a snarl that tugged at his lips. " But she is exceptional, even by the standards of the continent."

"Can she read?"

"She can rule, as well. She has the blood of the great Charlemagne pulsing through her veins. That is quite a prize to take back to the Saxon island. But I could not let you take such a prize," Charles held up a finger to pause the negotiations. "Not without the reciprocation of your trust. You have brought a son along with you. Leave him with me, in Francia, and I will guarantee his safety as you guarantee my daughter's. It will be a great time for him, he might study with my sons, and the sons of the other noblemen in the school set up by my grandfather."

"Alfred …" Aethelwulf paused.

"You love your son," Charles noted with satisfaction. "As fathers, you and I are sailors on the same ship, are we not?"

Aethelwulf was silent behind his thick, braided beard. He looked at Alfred, whose eyes grew wide with the implications of the meeting, which he did not fully understand.

"I will leave my son," Aethelwulf said. "And when I return to my island, I will send you a ship filled to the brim of the hull with gifts and treasures that would impress even a Carolingian king."

"And …"

"And Queen Judith will sit at my side … as co-regent of the Kingdom of Wessex."

Most of the room could not hear the meeting between the kings, but Alfred had clung to every word. That night he slept close to his father, wishing he could consult him privately, but there was no privacy on the vast floor of King Charles dining hall, and the following day was a whirlwind. Alfred was fitted for new clothes, as were all the royals in the house. They boarded a boat to Rheims and feasted there for a night, and the following morning, Wihtred woke Alfred early and helped him dress in his new raiment. They walked to a church overlooking the river and Alfred was placed next to the door, where he stood as still as possible in front of a large crowd of people, who gathered in the yard surrounding the church.

The air was sweet, fragrant with wildflowers as thirteen-year-old Judith walked up the hill to the church. She looked out at the people who had gathered, and her eyes settled on Alfred. He could see that she was afraid. She did not want to go to his home any more than he wanted to stay in hers. She walked up to her sixty-one-year-old groom, her lips tight with determination. She did not look at Aethelwulf, but instead glued her eyes on the archbishop, who said the prayers and bound their hands together.

The ceremony followed Saxon traditions until the archbishop lifted a golden circlet, heavy with jewels of fine cut and shape, and placed it on Judith's head, pronouncing her queen, and co-regent of Aethelwulf's kingdom. Alfred did not know why the Saxons gasped, and a grumbling among them murmured through the crowd. The service concluded, the Frankish gentry applauded, and the pretty bride smiled at them as the jewels of her crown caught the sunlight and shined with sparks of color.

"The feast is within!"

King Charles motioned the audience to the Hall of Rheims, and the wedding party led the crowd. Alfred did not walk with his father, for all the king's attention was honed on his new wife. Instead, the young boy looked up at the blue sky and worried that his mother was looking down from heaven with a broken heart.

"The timing is indecent," commented one of the Saxons walking behind him. Alfred did not look at the man who had spoken. "Disrespectful," muttered another under his breath.

Alfred knew that he was not supposed to overhear, and that the men could be killed for their treason if he reported them. He said nothing but followed the Frankish princes to the courtyard of the main hall where an ox was roasting over a large pit, and the minstrels were getting ready to play. The people found places to sit so the men could start drinking, worrying the servants who rushed around with pitchers of wine. Alfred sat where he was told, and ate what was placed in front of him, feeling dazed, confused, and alone. He looked to his father, who sat with Judith, feeding her small morsels of fruit and fish.

Normally, a wedding party would culminate with witnesses following the new couple to their bedchamber, but Judith was not yet of age. She would live with her husband as his ward until she blossomed, so the party that day ended with sending the couple off to the docks. Alfred stood behind his father as Aethelwulf helped Judith onto her horse. The Franciscan people cheered while Judith dashed little tears from her cheeks.

"Alfred." Aethelwulf lowered himself to one knee to be on his son's level. "Bishop Wihtred is going to stay in Francia with you. And you have the Frankish princes as friends, so you will not be alone."

Alfred battled the tears that threatened his eyes. He was almost relieved when his father stood up to take the reins of his horse. Alfred sniffled, and balled his hands into tight fists. He kept his back straight and his chin up, knowing that there were crowds of Saxons and Franciscans watching him. He looked straight ahead, toward his father's stomach, but through him, beyond the horses and beyond the rivers, beyond the ocean, and back to his home.

"If I go now," Aethelwulf announced, "I will make the evening tide."

Alfred's heart shivered in his chest. His knees felt weak, and fear was the only emotion that registered in his confused brain. "Yes, my lord," Alfred said, his voice merely a whisper. He watched his father mount and lead the procession toward the river and the waiting Saxon ship, brought up from the docks of Rome by Lord Somerset, who had already weighed anchor on his own ship and set sail for the Wessex port.

Alfred could not believe that his father would leave him. He felt sure that Wulfheard, or one of the other men, would come back. The trumpets blew before the king, and the Franciscan court stood watching them leave. Alfred's breath caught in his chest. They were not turning around. His father was not sending a man back. He opened his mouth. He wanted to call out, but no sound passed over his lips.

King Charles put a hand on his shoulder and Alfred looked up, his vision blurred. "Come, little lord," Charles said.

Alfred returned to the hall with the royal family who were now his custodians. Carloman glared at him, having never forgiven the shove back in Italy, or being outwitted by a stablehand. Alfred tried not to attract any attention, but the evening meal was a gathering of the entire household. Alfred sat quietly and ate very little, and that night he slept in the common room of the Hall of Rheims, not cuddled up to anyone.

He had held his emotions throughout the day, but in the anonymity of the darkness that night, tears raced down his cheeks, and he sniffed. He was startled when a gentle hand fell across his back. Alfred turned to see Bishop Wihtred, sleeping near him, and he stopped crying.


	9. Chapter 9

The following day found the men groggy, but King Charles forced them out of their beds early. Alfred stood close to Wihtred in the gray morning, watching the Franciscans pack the king's possessions. They sailed on Charles' ships, down the Seine to the port in Paris.

"Your lessons will commence on the morrow," King Charles said to Alfred as they made their way toward the sprawling hall. We will begin by improving your vocabulary. Your Italian is lacking, and your Frankish is far worse." The king snapped his fingers and several servants rushed forward. "Lord Alfred," Charles said. "Bishop Corbus will help to instruct you on the ways of the Frankish court."

The servants backed away and only the bishop remained. He did not wear the home-spun brown monk's robe that Wihtred donned every day, instead he was grand in appearance, wearing a black tunic with blood-red trim. His boots were sharp-toed and made of velvet, and his hosiery was as red as the lining of his tunic. He was adorned with gems on his fingers and around his neck.

To Corbus, Charles said, "he will study geography until he knows the world. He will prepare to journey with the royal court, so be sure that he learns to dress like a real prince. And … do something about his hair."

"My lord." Corbus bowed.

"Carloman!" Charles called to his son, who was instantly at his side. "Make sure that the Wessex lord has what he needs for school."

"Is he to attend SCHOOL?" Carloman seemed confused. "With US?"

"He is of noble blood," Charles said. "And your sister is now married to his family. Make your peace with it and help him acclimate."

Charles walked away from them while Carloman glared at Alfred. Alfred took an involuntary step backward, where he felt the comforting bulk of Wihtred's robes.

"Do you know what awaits your father when he returns to your island?" Carloman asked, undeterred by the bishop's presence.

Alfred's eyes widened. He shook his head slowly, not daring to look away.

"Merely ten years ago, the pagans came here. They murdered over a hundred people, soldiers and

peasants. They cut the roof beams out of my father's great hall to mend their ships. They stole priceless treasures, and there was nothing that the king, the emperor, nor any army could do to stop them. The pagans take all, and they leave nothing. I told you how many they killed, but how many they took? No one knows."

Alfred shook inside to hear his ominous message.

"And now my sister is sailing toward an island that is being overrun by them. You had best hope, more than any other in the empire, that your father can keep her safe."

Alfred gulped against his dry throat.

"You know that if she is killed, you will be killed as well," Carloman informed him. "If she loses her hand, I will take yours off myself."

Alfred backed further into the bishop's robes, and Wihtred laid and hand across the boy's chest, as if to shield him.

"Come along," huffed Corbus, having no time for Carloman's games. "Your cell is this way."

Alfred turned from him, eager to escape his haunting threats. The main keep of the Hall of Paris was only one of the massive structures within the walls, including the wall itself. Corbus led Alfred to a doorway within the thick, protective wall, and up a steep set of carved stairs. The exterior wall on the right contained slit holes through which Alfred could glimpse the blue sky from their elevated height. On the left, the wall boasted a row of chambers dedicated to different purposes. They passed a store of weaponry, a store of grainery, a store of old saddles and blankets, then came to an empty cell. There was a large pile of bundled straw in the center, and in the east corner was set a small devotional.

Corbus walked into the empty cell and looked at Alfred. "This is where you will sleep while you are in residence here."

Before, Alfred had stayed in his father's chamber, surrounded by Saxon guards, or in the main room of the hall, surrounded by Saxon guards.

"Who else will sleep here?" Alfred asked.

Corbus sniffed. He was a tall, lanky man with sharp features. He had a pointy nose, and large nostrils which sniffed the air with disgust. "Your accent is terrible," Corbus said, enunciating every word he said to show Alfred the error of his own ways. "Your bishop may stay here with you."

Alfred looked around the empty room and back to the door, where Wihtred stood.

"The tailor will be here shortly, as you will need something suitable to wear in the morning. What can be done about your head?" He examined Alfred's hair with contempt. "We must cut it all off and begin again. After his hair is cut down to the nub, it will be combed every morning while it grows back, and it will be washed every week. In the morning, bring him to the front yard and I will show you the way to the church, where the school master will meet him." He glared down at Alfred. "I hope he is far more presentable when the king lays eyes on him again."

Commotion at the door announced several men and women, who bustled their way into the room. Corbus started directing them and, in a matter of minutes, Alfred was stripped naked, his hair shorn, and he was brusquely washed and measured. They gave him a long, white undershirt and then Corbus directed the people back out. The room emptied as quickly as it had filled, and Alfred stood in the center, so clean that his skin was red and raw, and he was almost bald, but for a few patches of uneven brown fuzz. Alfred looked at Wihtred, who was equally shocked.

"I will see you both in the morning." Corbus turned away and walked out with his nose in the air.

"Perhaps you should rest, my lord." Wihtred motioned Alfred to the bed pallet, and they both sat on the edge. "Shall we pray for your father's safe journey, my lord?" Wihtred asked.

"He should not have married her," Alfred said.

"Beg your pardon, my lord?"

Alfred shook his head. "There was something wrong, was there not? I heard the men breathing during the ceremony. There was something wrong."

"The crowning," Wihtred sighed. "You are too intelligent for me to hide it from you. The men did not like to see her crowned."

"But Frankish queens are always crowned," Alfred said.

"That is their custom, but it is not ours."

"Why is it bad?"

"There was once a time when a woman was given equal power with her husband. It was the downfall of his reign. She was the end of her king."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you know of Beorthic?"

Alfred shook his head.

"Not surprising that your father never spoke of him. He had usurped your grandfather and chased him off the Island of the Britons. They came here for refuge, probably to this very hall, and mayhaps they slept in this very chamber. But King Egbert may have never come back to power if the pretender had not made so fatal a mistake as trusting his wife."

"What happened to him?"

Wihtred sighed. "It is late, and you should pray before sleeping, Alfred. Your father means for you to go to the church when you are grown, and prayer times must be strictly observed."

"Please, Wihtred. Tell me what happened to Beorthic, and my grandfather."

Wihtred looked at the fading sunlight outside their window, then heaved a reluctant sigh. "Very well, my lord, I will tell you the story of Beorthic and Eadburh."

Alfred sat up straight, Wihtred was treating him like an adult so he folded his hands neatly in his lap and kept his feet still.

"There came to power a man called Beorthic," Wihtred recited the old tale. "And he overthrew the rightful king, your very own grandfather, my lord, and King Egbert was compelled to take refuge. Beorthic might have ruled for years, but he married a girl called Eadburh and he crowned her, making her a queen. In the days of the Britwalda, the old Saxon kings, there was never a queen, and Eadburh thought too highly of herself, and too lowly of everyone else. If a man came to Beorthic's favor, she would invent a treason to have him driven out of court or killed.

"There came such a man called Worr. He fought at the king's side, and he ate at his table. He sat closer to King Beorthic than did Eadburh, and because she was queen and had equal power, she commanded that Worr be killed. But why? Asked the king. For he has done no wrong. She made stories of his treasons, but the king would not listen. He had grown suspicious of Eadburh's accusations and had seen his number of trusted men dwindle because of her. Those she had not yet put to death were now weary and kept a distance from the king."

Alfred rubbed the fuzz on the top of his head while he listened intently to Wihtred's soft voice.

"Worr continued to laugh and drink with Beorthic, so Eadburh poisoned his chalice. It was all well and good when she saw him drink of it, but then Beorthic, too, laid his hands on the chalice and took a long, deep drink. She could not stop him in time, and both men died.

"When Beorthic was gone, Eadburh had to run away, and Charlemagne helped to restore your grandfather to his rightful throne. The true King of Wessex was anointed by the Pope, and proclaimed by all, as it was God's will. Every nobleman in Wessex felt safe again for the first time since Eadburh was crowned, and it is known that there will never be another queen on the island."

"What happened to Eadburh?" Alfred asked, breathless by the tale.

Wihtred took a deep breath and released it slowly. "She was a selfish woman to the last. She came to Charlemagne and he found her to be beautiful and offered her a marriage. Such a marriage would flatter any widow, but she wanted Charlemagne's son, and lusted after him for his youth. Charlemagne was disgusted by her and placed her instead in an abbey. They found her there, indecent with a man who had come for shelter, and Eadburh was sent away. She died begging in the streets, with only one servant left. Such is the fate of a selfish queen."

"But Judith is a queen," Alfred interjected, and his voice echoed in the empty cell.

"Yes, she has been crowned, and by an archbishop, no less."

"What will the nobles say?" Alfred whispered.

"I know not, my young master," Wihtred admitted, and Alfred could see that he was worried.

Neither could think about sleeping, so they knelt together on the bed pallet and crossed themselves, praying first to thank God for His blessings, then to speed the king on his way home. And then they prayed for Alfred's mother before sleep could take them. Alfred woke with the gray dawn, his eyes red and swollen.

"You wept in your sleep, my lord."

Alfred saw that the young cleric had sat beside him all night. He sat up and put his arms around Wihtred's neck, and the bishop returned the hug.

"God watched over you, Lord Alfred," Wihtred whispered to him.

Alfred heard people in the hall outside his door and turned to look at the open doorway where a gaggle of Frankish servants waited. They peered their unfamiliar faces around the doorframe and gawked at him. "Did you see the clothes they took from him? And him, a prince." Alfred could hear their whispers. "His hair looks terrible now, but it is still improved," another whisper skipped over the stone floor and found its way to Alfred's ear. "I hear his mother only just died, and his father now married to the princess, and herself only a child."

Alfred got out of his bed, and out of the comforting embrace of the only friend he had in the world. They heard a set of fingers snap in the hall, and all the whispers and giggling stopped. Servants carried in a six-foot tall, gleaming plate of polished gold, and leaned it against the wall, displaying it in front of Alfred.

A fat man in expensive clothes followed the mirror, his chin held high and his eyes nearly closed because he was too important to look at most of the people in the room, but he looked at Alfred. "Dress him," he commanded.

Alfred stood still as the servants wrapped him in soft clothing, tied a leather belt around his waist, and put expensive jewelry on his fingers and around his neck.

"Here is your reflection, my lord. I think you will be most pleased."

Alfred glared at the plate of gold. He saw a pouting little boy with no hair and pricey new clothes. He did not look like a Saxon. He did not look like his father's son.

"I will carry my seax," Alfred insisted.

"My lord, as a ward of the King of West Francia -"

"I am a Saxon lord! My seax is called," he thought for a second, "Proud Blade, and you will give it to me at once!"

The house steward relented and nodded to a servant, who left the room and returned with the blade, handing it over to the angry child. The boy clung to the one piece of his heritage that they had not taken from him.

"With that, then, the master is ready?" The steward asked, obviously annoyed that his advice was being ignored.

Alfred looked to Wihtred and refused to move until the bishop stepped up beside him.

"I want my old clothes," Alfred complained, as they walked out of the chamber, passing lines of Frankish servants. "And I want my old hair." He touched his head with longing. "Father will not know me when I come home!"

"That day will be very different from this one," Wihtred promised him. "For now, we are guests of the King of West Francia. We must be gracious always. We represent our king while he is not here."

Alfred crossed his arms and walked with a stomp, but only for a few steps, then he straightened up. He was certain that his father would hear every word of his behavior. The servants led them to the courtyard where Carloman and his brothers were getting into their saddles.

"Are Saxons always this slow?" Carloman said to Alfred and kicked his horse into a steady gait.

Alfred's horse, Cloud, called after the others while Wihtred's donkey stood complacent.

"My lord." Bishop Corbus came out of the hall with a guard on his heels. "This is Ser Merovich," Corbus informed them. "He will accompany my lord wherever he goes."

Merovich stepped forward and reached out a hand to help Alfred into his saddle, but Alfred's instinct told him to shy away. He looked up at the guard with mistrust.

"I can show you the way," the guard smiled.

"Who are you?" Alfred asked.

The dark-haired guard straightened his pointed, black beard. "King Charles has said to me, Merovich, take care of the foreign lord. So, let help you up."

"King Charles … assigned you to me?"

"Yes, my lord, to make sure that nothing happens to you, just as your father makes sure that nothing happens to our dear Judith."

Alfred looked to Wihtred, who nodded. They were both concerned about their new companion, but Alfred allowed himself to be lifted into the saddle, then Merovich took his own horse and they jogged in a line with Merovich and Bishop Corbus leading the way, Alfred in the center, and Wihtred trailing behind on his slower mount. Alfred could still see the riders ahead of them, four in all; three boys and one guard. He wondered where Prince Louis, the eldest brother, was spending his morning.

The church was a large, squat, stone building, with a long hall and a transept at the far end, so that if it were to be seen from above, it would appear the shape of a cross. It sat atop a hill, overlooking the village, the great hall, and the Seine River. The church was larger than any of the churches Alfred had seen any place outside of Rome, but it appeared severe and judgmental, built of large, dark stones laid one upon the other, bare, with only straw and mud to fill the cracks of the walls. It was a more recent construction, not at all like the smooth perfection of the architecture of ancient Rome.

Alfred's horse trotted through the streets of the city in the valley, then up the hill, snorting and tossing its head at the oppressive, dark building looming above them. Alfred shivered. When they reached the church, the other boys were already inside. Merovich dismounted first and walked over to help Alfred, who tried to be gracious. He noted the jeweled hilt of the sword at Merovich's side as he leaned into the Franciscan guard's arms and let himself be lowered to the ground. Merovich led him into the building and their mass filled the doorway and cut the yellow sunshine from the room in a momentary eclipse. The dark, wet walls were illuminated by lit rushes and candles, which did little to warm the dankness.

Alfred was surprised that the number of students included more than the three princes. He counted eight boys and, to his amazement, one girl, sitting on the rushes with boards in their hands. Every student wore an identical black robe, shapeless and billowy, which covered the rich fabrics of their clothes. They wore small caps with flat boards across the top, and tassels that hung down in front of their faces as they leaned over, scratching letters into green wax.

Bishop Corbus handed Alfred his own black robe and tasseled, flat-board cap, then went to the headmaster while Wihtred helped him don his new over-clothes.

"Lord Alfred of Wessex, from the Island of the Britons, ward of King Charles, our sovereign king, is here to attend lessons. His servants are Ser Merovich, and our own brother, Bishop Wihtred, who is of Canterbury in the kingdom of Wessex."

Even the headmaster was dressed better than Wihtred, but the Wessex bishop did not appear ashamed of his homespun robe, even though Alfred could hear the students buzzing about it. Alfred covered his own Parisian garb with the robe that was given to him, and he took a place near the other boys, as the girl sat far off by herself.

"Very well, my lord," acknowledged the master. "I am Deacon Pepin, and I will answer your questions when you have them. First, take this." He snapped his fingers.

A young boy not dressed like a student, but rather a junior clergyman, rushed forth and gave Alfred a board covered in dry, green wax, along with a sharpened piece of bone as a stylus.

"Write all the names of the popes, beginning in the year of our Lord, eight hundred."

Alfred looked at the other students, who bent to their work. The girl was feverishly scraping at the wax, the tip of her tongue poking out of the side of her mouth as she concentrated.

Bishop Wihtred found his place along the wall where other manservants were waiting, watching their charges. At the opposite end of the room, two women were sitting alone, wearing bright dresses, bent over needlework. Altar boys rushed around lighting candles, stoking fires, bringing supplies to the students and the teacher, and taking cups of wine to the people like Wihtred and Merovich.

Alfred did not know the name of the pope in the year eight hundred but judging from what he could see of the other students' boards, there had been quite a few in the span of fifty-six winters. He looked at his own board. He had never written in wax before. He looked back at the master, afraid.

"Master Pepin," Carloman said, cutting the thick silence of the room. "We should welcome Alfred to our school, I am sure that he has never been to one before."

"That is thoughtful of Prince Carloman." Corbus stepped forward with an over-exaggerated sniff.

"He looks better," commented Prince Lothair. "No hair is better than the manure pile he had on his head before."

All the boys laughed. The girl did not look up.

"He still looks like a Saxon," commented Prince Charles. "They all have square bottoms."

"I bet he even has a tail," sniggered Carloman.

"I hear they drink their wine from the skulls of dead people." Another boy chimed in.

"That is untrue!" Alfred could feel his ire rising.

"That will be all." Pepin glared at the offenders.

"How are we to concentrate with that smell in the room?" complained Charles, who was sitting nearest to Alfred. "Do you smell it? It is coming from over here."

Charles leaned toward Alfred and contorted his already-ugly face. Alfred wanted to cry and run from the room, but his legs felt like heavy rock.

"Show your boards," Pepin announced.

The princes turned to their work and hurriedly tried to finish, but the master snatched the boards from their hands, causing bone to scrape wax and thus removing half of Lothair's answers. Alfred sheepishly surrendered his own empty work.

Pepin looked down on him. "Go and get the first book from the shelf."

Alfred stood up. His legs were wobbly as he crossed the room while all the other students watched him. He pulled at the first book, a heavy vellum tomb bound in leather, and carried it back to his place where Pepin and Corbus were waiting. Wihtred remained against the wall, his face lined with consternation.

"Read it," Corbus insisted. "Read the Latin liturgy for all to hear."

Latin was familiar to Alfred. He sat down on the ground and opened the book, leaning forward to get a good look at the page in the dim light of the windowless room. They were all watching, waiting for him to admit that he did not know how to read. None but Wihtred expected him to launch into the words with ease and rhythm, reading the page as if he had been reciting it every morning of his life.

Corbus flushed and took the book away. "Who taught you to read?"

"My mother, your grace," Alfred told him. "When I had seen four winters. Maybe younger, I do not remember …"

Corbus stalked the room, glaring at Alfred as he snatched something from a low table.

"Very well, then." He dropped a Frankish scroll in Alfred's lap. "Read the first four words."

Alfred could read it, but they laughed at his pronunciation, and the bishop made him repeat the words over and over, even after he was getting them right. On his tenth repetition of the fourth word, Alfred's voice tightened, and he could no longer speak.

Corbus glared at him. "When a student is told to repeat the word, the student will obey!"

Alfred looked at the other boys, their sneering faces tormenting him. The girl watched him with wide, sad eyes. Alfred lowered his head, fighting tears of humiliation.

Bishop Wihtred stepped forward. "The young lord will retire to the hall now."

Corbus glared at Wihtred. "The boy has barely even begun. He has not answered a single assignment!"

"His lessons for today are concluded."

"You must step aside and give the master authority over the child," Corbus insisted.

Wihtred roared, as Alfred had never heard him before, "God ALONE has authority over this child!"

Wihtred held out a hand to Alfred. The room was as silent as death while Alfred stood up, leaving the Frankish scroll on the ground, and he did not look back at any of them, but followed Wihtred out the door.

And Merovich followed behind them.


	10. Chapter 10

Lord Aethelbald was tall, with deep-set eyes, which were canopied by a severe brow. He had the same chestnut hair as his father and siblings but had inherited his mother's curls. Even his beard, which grew in wispy, youthful patches, was curled. He stood sullen on the wooden planks of the docks as he watched his father and youngest brother set sail to Rome. In his eighteen years, Aethelbald had learned to appear gracious even though it ate at his heart that his father had not taken him on the voyage. Aethelbald had never been to Rome, and he was his father's heir, but King Aethelwulf chose Alfred to meet the new pope, because he was for the church, Aethelwulf had explained.

On the day that Aethelbald's father departed for Rome, his mother was standing next to him, waving, and dabbing at the tears in the corners of her eyes. Aethelbald stood with her and watched the ship for all the hours it took to disappear on the horizon. He tried not to glance at the sun, at least not so that the eldermen standing near could see his impatience. The younger princes, Aethelbert and Aethelred, and their sister, Aethelswith, were taken back to the Hall of Wareham, but Aethelbald had to wait. When it was finally time to return to the hall, Lady Osburga took her son's arm, and Aethelbald thought that she leaned rather heavily as he brought her to the road that led up the hill and to the main hall.

The peasants around them were stopping in their work to watch such important and well-dressed people walk by. His mother held her head up high as she walked past them, but with every step she leaned more on Aethelbald. Aethelbald was taller than his mother and had to look down to see that Osburga's lips were pressed together, tight with determination. Aethelbald steeled his arm to hold the weight of her, which she rested almost entirely upon him. They were halfway up the road when she stumbled, and then Aethelbald knew that something was wrong. He looked to her, but her face was perfectly composed. She did not glance at him, but kept her eyes trained on the door of the hall, the goal that she was determined to reach. Aethelbald wanted to put an arm around her so that he could better hold her, but he knew that she would not have allowed it. They had to be strong in front of the common people, and they had to be strong in front of the nobles. They took one step at a time along the road, letting the others trail slowly behind.

Osburga coughed, and crimson spittle splattered on her lips.

"Mother!" Aethelbald exclaimed.

She shook her head to silence him, but then she lost her strength and sank to the ground in the middle of the road. Aethelbald grabbed hold of her and dropped to one knee so that he could cradle her like a babe.

"My lord!" Several people were shouting in his ear. "This way! This way!"

The Hall of Wareham was a long structure, shaped like a tunnel with a tall, slanting roof. The building was one of the few in Wessex that was constructed entirely of timber and stone instead of the usual constructions of mud and grass. More impressive, the hall was fortified by stone walls, which had been built by the Romans long ago. The interior was lime-washed to brighten the walls as well as to seal the hall from drafts. One of the white-washed walls was decorated in a brightly painted scene of forest colors with hunters and animals throughout. The opposite wall was an allegory of Bible scenes, from Adam and Eve all the way up to Moses. A few pieces of embroidery swung on wooden dowels on the support beams, which were carved with designs, and covered in bright paint and beaded strings.

Osburga coughed and blood stained her dress as well as the front of Aethelbald's tunic. The blood was dark, from deep within.

Aethelbald gasped. "Mother, this is bad," he told her.

The servants made a place for her near the fire, laying out deer hides and lighting incense. Aethelbald knelt and placed her gently on the warm bed, and servants pulled woolen blankets and a cover made of wolf hide up to the lady's neck. She tried to focus on Aethelbald, but her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

"Where is Bishop Aethelheard?" Aethelbald demanded to know.

The aged bishop hurried through the door. "Get my herbs!" he panted as he fell to the lady's side. "Boil water!"

Bishop Aethelheard gave the servants assignments, sending them scurrying away, then he began to pray over Osburga, who did not respond to the steam, nor the herbs, nor the prayer. She could not eat, and a few days later she stopped drinking, and after that it was only a matter of hours before she slipped away. The Lady of Wessex died so suddenly that her eldest son had no idea what to do. He gathered her limp body in his arms while his little brothers and sister cried behind him.

"Mother," Aethelbald cried, laying his face in her bosom as he hugged her one last time. "Oh, God, how can You be so cruel?"

Bishop Aethelheard laid a hand on the lord's shoulder to silence him. Even in the depths of his despair, his blaspheme could not be overlooked. Aethelbald lifted his head, and in front of him saw several of his father's eldermen, old men that he had known and trusted all his life. He was hopeful that they would have advice.

"My lord," tsked one of the old men. "I mourn your loss, indeed the loss of the entire kingdom. She was a great lady."

Another man pushed the first out of the way. "My lord, with your father gone from the island, I would like to help you make arrangements for your dear mother, our great lady."

"That is the job of the Steward of the House," insisted Lord Wareham, who moved the second man out of the way. They jostled with one another to console Aethelbald, to stand next to him and promise to help shoulder his burdens. They implicated one another and they contradicted themselves with everything that they eagerly spilled into his ear. Aethelbald hid behind his cousin, Theobald.

"The arrangements for the Lady of Wessex will be taken care of by Lord Wareham," Theobald informed the shouting mass of them, and many got louder as they protested the decision.

"Who are you to give us orders, boy?" shouted one among them.

"Who dared to say that?" Theobald demanded. "I am your king's own nephew, and my father was also a son of King Egbert. Who are YOU to question MY orders? Coward-who-hides-among-the-crowd!"

"There are important matters!" insisted one of the men in the front, who faced Theobald directly. "Something must be done to alleviate the suffering of those affected by the flood in the West! I came here to see the lady, or the king, if I could. Now I must ask the Heir of Wessex for help. Please my lord! Your own subjects are starving!"

Aethelbald could hear them, but he remained at the back of the hall with his siblings, who sat beside their mother's body.

"There are more pressing concerns than that," another voice insisted. "I have just come from the northern border, and hear that pagans have landed in Northumbria, and they have KILLED King Aelle!"

"Enough!" Aethelbald stood up from his mourning and strode back into the thick of them to stand beside his cousin. "What do you think that I can do for King Aelle? Or against a flood?"

"My lord, the pagans have killed a king!"

Aethelbald felt panicked with so many eyes planted on him. They all expected him to do something. "I want a message sent to my father immediately," Aethelbald commanded, his voice cracking with youth and emotion as he yelled out over the noise of the people who crowded around him.

"I will take your message, my lord." One of the nobles stepped forward.

"Lord Somerset," Aethelbald nodded. "You will take my fastest ship. Now, everyone will go to their fires, and my brothers and I will retire to pray for our mother."

The prayer did not last as long as Aethelbald had hoped, and then he had to go back to the matters of the kingdom. He was up late while men read him documents, which he did not understand. They wanted him to sign things, but Aethelbald was dizzy from all their voices and attention. The only thing he agreed to sign was the letter that he had dictated to his father, asking for his immediate return.

The following morning, Aethelbald woke to the voices of the eldermen again, and he was relieved when Lord Somerset's boat launched on the next tide, from the same southern port that King Aethelwulf had departed by, but with far less fanfare than the king's departure had enjoyed.

Aethelbald stood alone on the docks this time, enjoying a moment of quiet while the eldermen waited for him on land. He felt very alone that day, and his only hope was a quick response from his father.

He did not want to go back to where the eldermen were, but he had no choice. Before the ship was out of sight, Aethelbald turned away from the sea and walked up the docks to face them. They began talking immediately, and he boiled with rage that they had so little consideration for his mourning. His brothers were left alone, coddled by the servants. His little sister, Aethelswith, could do nothing but cry. Aethelbald was not afforded such luxury.

He was eager to get word from his father, but weeks came and went, family feuds and droughts and blights plagued the kingdom. East Anglia disputed borders, and lightning raids by pagans picked at them from the rivers. Two months after the Lady Osburga's death, Aethelbald's cousin rushed into the hall with news of a ship. Theobald hurried past the servants, who toiled throughout the common areas, and made his hasty way to the throne.

"Elderman Edgar has returned, my lord," Theobald announced, not waiting to be recognized.

"Did you see my father's ship, too?" Aethelbald asked.

"There is only one ship on the sea right now."

"Gather the council." Aethelbald gripped the armrest of his chair. "It is possible that the king is aboard Somerset's ship."

But Lord Somerset landed alone and did not hurry up the hill. Aethelbald stood in the doorway of the hall and watched him make a laboriously slow ascent.

"What did he say? Where is he?" Aethelbald demanded to know.

Lord Edgar held up a scroll with the king's seal.

"Do not torment me, old man!" Aethelbald insisted. He could not read the scroll himself, but he snatched it from the elderman's hand and gave it over to the elderly archbishop who had, since the death of Lady Osburga, attached himself to Aethelbald's side.

Archbishop Aethelheard broke the seal and began reading the words, "To my son and heir, Aethelbald, Prince of Wessex." Everyone smiled and Theobald patted Aethelbald on his back at the king's declaration of Aethelbald's title. "I am writing to prepare you for the coming of my new wife …" the aged cleric stopped and blinked at the page, reading back over the words to make sure he had read them correctly.

Aethelbald and his younger brothers and sister, and all the gathered nobles and servants were silent, their eyes wide with shock.

"Read on," Aethelbald whispered.

"The wedding took place in the doorway of the Cathedral of Rheims," the archbishop read. "The girl is Judith, daughter of King Charles, and she is younger than Aethelbert. You must trust your father's decision, and all decisions made clear to you in the future." The bishop paused and swallowed against his dry throat.

"What else does it say?" Aethelbald demanded. "Some word for our departed mother?"

"Nay, my lord," the old man lamented. "Only the signature of the king."

Aethelbald turned to the man who had carried the message. "Lord Somerset! I sent you in all haste to retrieve my father! Who is she?"

"She is the daughter of King Charles, my lord," Edgar said, looking at his feet.

"And how old is this girl? This … Princess Judith?"

"Judith of Francia has seen thirteen winters, my lord," Edgar spoke to the floor.

"A thirteen-year-old girl?" Aethelbald asked, astounded. "My father has been gone for months and my mother is dead. Now he is wed to a thirteen-year-old girl? Am I to call this child 'mother'?"

"Aethelbald," Aethelbert spoke low in his brother's ear. "Perhaps our father is grieved so much by our mother's death that he is not thinking clearly. Perhaps the king has seduced him with promises of dowry. I am quite certain that this child is not going to take the place of our mother."

Edgar cleared his throat. The brothers looked up at him, their identical sets of thick eyebrows raised. "Tell us what you know," Aethelbald insisted.

"My lords," the elderman bowed low. "I have given the message in its entirety. Anything else that I might know is …"

"Tell me," Aethelbald grabbed the elderman by the shoulder. "Tell me everything that you know!"

"My prince, heir of my sovereign king." Edgar shivered with emotion and avoided Aethelbald's eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but broke down and wept.

Aethelbald took a deep breath, trying to be patient. "You must tell me what ails you so fiercely, Elderman. Unburden your heart."

Edgar sniffled and tried to compose himself. "God help me, but King Aethelwulf has made this girl his co-regent. And you will know soon enough that she wears a crown of her own along with the title of queen."

Aethelbald gripped his fingers, digging into the man's shoulder. "What?"

"Yes, my lord, the whisper that I have heard is that the princess delights in informing her ladies that she is more-than-queen."

"More-than-queen?" Aethelbald was too stunned to form a coherent thought. He let go of his grip on Edgar's shoulder and turned back to his brother. "Shall she be more than our mother ever was?" He demanded. "And what about when she gives him a son? Will that son be more than I ever was?"

He glared at the assemblage of well-dressed men.

"Lord Aethelbald," the Elderman of Gloucester stepped forward. "God has seen fit to give me the health to be in your father's service for as many winters as I can remember, and only once have I ever heard of a Wessex king sharing power with his wife. It was disastrous. Women cannot rule kingdoms. I beg you, for the longevity of Wessex, and before the other kings hear of this and fall upon our nation, pen a letter to your father and beg him to reconsider."

"They will already be upon the sea," Edgar told them. "His highness was only a tide behind me."

Aethelbald spurred into action. "Command every trader ship within a day of the Port of Dorset to come to me. When they land, fill the boats with soldiers and surround the port mouth. We will not let my father's ship land in this harbor. Aethelbert, come with me."

Aethelbald marched through the crowd and the men parted for him, closing back again behind the younger brother, who trailed after.

"You mean to not let our father, the KING, land in his own port?" Aethelbert asked.

Aethelbald was shaking with rage. "I will not hear of this treason. To throw aside our mother's memory for some child-whore. And is she already pregnant? Would you tell me what happens when THAT comes about?"

"Perhaps nothing."

"Nothing? A direct descendant of the Great King Charlemagne, born on the Saxon Island, and it would mean nothing?"

"Our mother was a princess, too."

"Of the Isle of Jute. The only inhabited island smaller than … Ireland." He sneered at the name of the neighboring island, one of the few places that the Saxons could look down on as less civilized than themselves.

The two young princes took their horses to the docks, where the world was in chaos. The peasants did not know what was happening, and the soldiers who suddenly filled their usual workspace had no intentions of explaining it to them.

"A ship for you, Lord Aethelbald!" Theobald shouted over the noise of the harbor.

Aethelbald led his brother up the gangplank and took a place at the prow of the ship, wrapping his wolf-skin cloak around his shoulders. He ordered the boats to stop a few furlongs from land where they could anchor at a known sandbar. He positioned the boats as close to one another as they dared on the rocking waves, creating a formidable barrier through which only the best of captains might be able to maneuver. Aethelbald paced the deck of his ship and watched the horizon.

"Ho!" called the captain, pointing to a small dot on the ocean.

Aethelbald stopped in his pacing and watched as his father's ship came into view. They could see the banners that were flying on its mast as it sailed directly for them, expecting them to part. Aethelbald braced himself in case they did not stop. He almost closed his eyes, but he could not blink as the ship slid closer. He forced himself not to cringe. He could not let the nobles see that.

A sharp turn to port slowed the king's ship, and they cast out their oars just before they would have slammed into Aethelbald's prow. The men on the other boat shouted at them from across the water, but Aethelbald inspected them without emotion as his ship rode on the massive wake that disturbed the already-rough sea. He looked for his father, who stood up from his place and dropped the wolf skin from his shoulders and made his way to the gunwale to glare back at his son.

"Aethelbald!" The old king shouted to be heard. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Your letter was received, Father," Aethelbald warned him.

"Get your ship out of my way!" Aethelwulf bellowed.

"I will not!"

The council members who stood on Aethelbald's deck took a collective inhale of breath. They needed only an instant to process the magnitude of the moment, and then, one by one, they lowered themselves to a knee, agreeing that Aethelbald would be the better king.

"What are you doing?" Aethelbert hissed. "This is treason!"

"This is progress," Aethelbald insisted. "Our father has seen sixty-one winters, and I am his heir. They would be fools not to give their allegiance to me now when I ask them for it."

Aethelbert looked across the water, watching their father's ship as the people aboard began to realize what was happening. Aethelbald knew that he could not be timid, and though he was terrified, he forced himself to proceed with confidence.

"TAKE HER BACK TO THE CONINENT!" Aethelbald shouted. "THE SAXONS WILL HAVE NO QUEEN!"

"PRINCE AETHELBALD!" Wulfheard, Aethelwulf's constant companion and bodyguard, jumped up and stood next to his sovereign, holding onto his ship's edge as he shouted over the water. "WE HAVE NOT THE SUPPLIES TO MAKE A SECOND CROSSING! THE WIND IS BLOWING WEST, WE WLL NOT SURVIVE!"

"YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE TAKEN HER FROM HER LAND!"

"MY LORD! REASON! ALFRED REMAINS UNDER THE PROTECTION OF KING CHARLES! HIS GUARANTEE IS NULL IF SHE IS NOT NAMED QUEEN!"

Aethelbald glared at him. "My brother … You may land in Kent, and there keep yourselves and any who follow."

"That will not do, my lord!" Wulfheard insisted. "The deal for Alfred's safety includes Judith's crown!"

"Any harm visited upon my brother will be avenged! Let them all know that! Those who would

harm him, and those who left him on the continent to be harmed. Father! Your child-whore will be the queen of a swamp, and nothing else!"

"MY LORD!" Wulfheard was distraught.

"YOU WILL ADDRESS ME AS KING!"

Cheers rose from the eldermen on Aethelbald's ship. Aethelbald had the people and the army on his side. No one wanted to be ruled by a girl.

Aethelbald, the newly self-appointed king, turned to his brother. "You will go to Kent and take with you a map that will show the extent of our father's new lands. If any of his following leave those lands, tell them that they will have to answer to me for it."

"Aethelbald," Aethelbert was trembling, even his voice shook as he stepped closer to his brother to speak as privately as possible. "Our father is still the King of Wessex in the eyes of God!"

Aethelbald narrowed his eyes. "Captain take us back to land. My brother needs to get on a horse."

Aethelbert gulped. "Yes … your highness," he whispered. He started to turn away, but Aethelbald reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling his ear close.

"Let me know what he is doing," Aethelbald murmured. "And, if there comes to be a child, get rid of it."


	11. Chapter 11

Wihtred ordered a dozen wax boards be delivered to the lord's cell. Neither of them had ever written on the tablets before, so they went through several boards before they could find any success. Alfred scratched all the way through the wax and took out entire chunks at a time. When he did manage a shallower scrawl, the symbol was not legible. Alfred dropped his stylus and cried.

"There now." Wihtred tried to comfort him. "Let us rest and we can try this again tomorrow."

Alfred sniffled and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Tomorrow is too late," he said. "We go to the church in the morning. Tell me the names of the popes."

Alfred bent over and retrieved the sharp bone that he had dropped. He scratched too deep and a chunk of wax came loose. He tried to press it back down with his finger, and teardrops fell on his hand. Wihtred wrinkled his brow with concern.

"The popes, Wihtred," the determined, almost-bald, almost-six-year-old boy commanded.

"My lord," Wihtred cleared his throat. "At the turn of the century, Pope Leo the Third crowned Charlemagne the Great, in Rome. Pope Leo lived until the year of our Lord eight hundred and sixteen. After him, I am afraid there were many, and their reigns were short."

"Pope Leo the Third," Alfred whispered. "Go on."

"Then there was Stephen the Fourth, who came to the papacy during the reign of Louis the Pious, King of Francia and Emperor of Rome."

"Stephen the Fourth," Alfred concentrated on scratching the wax.

"The Lord called him home in less than a year, and Pope Pascal the First was elected."

"Pascal," Alfred muttered.

The night was long, and they went through several candles trying to keep the room lit as they squinted over their work. Wihtred managed to write the names of all the ninth century popes, which barely fit in the space of the board, before he set it aside and rubbed his eyes. Alfred did not stop for several hours more, but finally he had one board with the letters A-L-F-R-E-D scraped in large, child's scrawl.

He fell asleep at sunrise, just as the house steward came in to wake him. Alfred donned his black robe and carried his cap under his arm while Merovich escorted him to breakfast, and then to his horse. Wihtred trailed behind on his donkey as they trooped up the hill to the church, where Alfred dismounted before Merovich had a chance to help him down. He looked up at the imposing building. Alfred loved churches, and the peace and solitude of chapels, but this church had a different meaning for him, and his stomach fluttered nervously as he walked through the door.

"Alfred of Wessex is late," announced Bishop Corbus.

Alfred took a place on the floor, a little away from the rest of the group so that they would not comment about his personal odor. His hand ached from working all night and when he picked up his tablet and stylus, his fingers almost refused to hold them. He winced at the pain.

"Your excellency," Alfred dared to speak.

Corbus turned to look down his nose. "Lord Alfred," he acknowledged.

"Would it be just as well," Alfred gulped, "if I write my letters on the ground?"

"I beg his lordship's pardon?"

"To use-use my finger." Alfred stuttered, fear gripping his throat. "I can write in the dirt much better than on the tablet."

"There can be no such allowances," Corbus sniffed, his huge nostrils flaring. "How would such a work be handed over to the master? Are you going to pick up the GROUND and hand it to the deacon?"

The other students giggled as they leaned over, scratching into their boards. Alfred's hopes dropped, and he looked down at the board in his hand. He did not know what the other students were writing, but he created several letters in the Parisian style as well as Saxon runes, all of which brought him ridicule when Bishop Corbus looked at them.

"Archery," Pepin announced in the afternoon. "Get up and stretch your legs."

Alfred followed dumbly as the other boys scattered into the yard, happy to be in the sunshine for a time. The archery master was there, yelling at them to stand in line. Alfred tried a bow, but he was too weak to pull the string back. The master worked with him for a few moments, then shook his head.

"How many winters have you seen?" the master asked.

"I think six."

"You are too young for archery," the master assessed. "Go and sit with the girl."

Alfred burned with shame, but he did as he was told to the sound of the other boys mocking his back. He found the girl, still dressed in her black gown, her ladies-in-waiting in bright colors, their skirts arrayed on the green grass.

"My lady." Alfred bowed. "God has blessed us with fine weather."

"It is indeed a good afternoon, Lord Alfred. God be praised." She squinted to look up at him in the bright afternoon light. "Do sit with us."

Alfred sat down. Wihtred was not far away, and neither was Merovich. Carloman loosed an arrow and the group of boys let out a shout of approval. Alfred plucked a blade of grass.

"Do not worry about them," the girl said. "You will get bigger. I fear that I will always be a girl."

"What is your name?"

"Call me Wisigard."

Wisigard was the first kindness Alfred found in West Francia. She had black hair and shining blue eyes, and she smiled, unlike anyone else that he knew in the Frankish court.

"Are you a princess?" Alfred asked her.

"No, my lord, my father is a cousin to the king."

"I am surprised to see a girl in school."

"Yes, Princess Judith and I were the only ones, and now she is gone."

"Will you marry soon?"

"I do not know. My father has arranged it, and when it happens, I will have to move away."

"Are you scared?" He gulped, realizing that he was asking her personal questions.

She looked off into the distance, not disturbed by the personal nature of the conversation. "I do not know. I have always known that it will happen, so I have been waiting. But my father says that I am not ready to be a wife yet."

Alfred nodded, and looked out at the distance with her, but his attention was caught by the princes at their archery lesson. "I have three brothers," he told her. "If they were here, the others would have to be kinder to me."

"Do not mind them." Her voice came softly to his ear. "They are all braggers, but they are scared and weak. Judith used to rule them, and they did whatever she said."

"She was the eldest, was she not?"

"Elder than these boys, yes. Louis is older."

Alfred plucked at grass. "My brother, Aethelbald, is my father's first son. He will be a king one day. I am the youngest, so I will be a cleric."

"That is a godly pursuit, but will you live in a monastery? Or in your father's castle?"

"We do not have castles in Wessex."

"You do not?"

"No, my lady. But we are not so backward to drink wine from human skulls, either."

"I never believed that."

Alfred smiled at her. Her ladies gave them apples and cheese, and they sat companionably while they ate their midday meal and watched the archery lesson. The ladies seemed uncomfortable about him, and when the students went back into the church he tried to sit with her, but the ladies moved her away from him.

"Your attention is indecent," one of the handmaidens informed him. And Alfred was left for the rest of the day wondering what he had done wrong. But when Corbus was hard on him, he saw a softness in Wisigard's eyes, and a small smile that gave him strength.

Alfred left the church that day and retired to his cell to avoid the princes and the feast of the court. He thought about his father, and prayed for him, wishing that a ship would arrive with word about the return voyage, but no ships came, and no gifts to impress King Charles either. Days broke and waned, and Alfred did as he was told, and he performed all the tasks that were expected of him in school, and when he had to, he attended the long, boring dinners hosted by his benefactor. He tried to be good and do good always because deep down he had an aching fear that his father had left him behind because he had misbehaved. He wanted to talk to his father and hug him, to feel safe in strong arms as he had before.

Waves of nostalgia tugged at his heart, but he was powerless to leave the island of Paris. He wrote letters with quill and ink on vellum each week, but he was never sure that they were sent. Disheartened, Alfred attended dinners and hunts, school and religious services. He tried to find his peace in the situation as weeks turned into months. Leaves changed, and Alfred's hair grew back. He was bent to his schoolwork as any other day when guards marched into the cathedral.

"Merovich." The captain of the guard shouted, startling everyone within. "The boy."

Alfred's blood turned to ice before Merovich's eyes had a chance to settle on him. He knew that they had come for him, and he tried to shrink back, wishing that the floor would open and swallow him. Tears poured down his cheeks and blurred his vision as the hands of the guards latched onto his arms, pulling him up, and pushing him to the door.

"WIHTRED!" Alfred cried.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Wihtred was right behind, trying to reach Alfred but being effectively blocked by the bodies of the soldiers. "UNHAND MY LORD!" Wihtred shouted to be heard over the mass of confusion that filled the room.

Alfred struggled against them. Corbus was yelling and the other boys were shouting. He saw Wisigard crying as the guards pushed him out the door and placed him on Merovich's horse, and Merovich got into the saddle behind him.

"HIS FATHER WILL HEAR OF THIS!" Wihtred shouted, breaking from the restraining guards and running to the side of the horse, his youthful round face flushed red. "HIS FATHER WILL HEAR!"

The guards kicked their horses into a canter, and they rushed down the hill, through the village and to the king's hall. Alfred was relieved that they were taking him to a familiar place. He was sure that King Charles would stop them, whatever they were trying to do. As the horses thundered into the snowy courtyard, Alfred looked desperately for the king, but none of the faces were friendly among an entire group of people staring at him. Merovich dismounted, and strangers pulled Alfred out of the saddle.

"To his cell," Merovich commanded.

"I did not do anything!" Alfred started pleading. "Please let me go! I DID NOT DO ANYTHING!"

They dragged him through the courtyard under the shocked stare of the servants.

"In here."

They went to the stairs in the wall that led to Alfred's chamber, and up to the little room where they pushed him onto his bed. Most of the men left, but Merovich stayed, standing in front of the door with his hand on his sword hilt. Alfred cried and rubbed the fresh bruises on his arms.

"Merovich," he sobbed. "What is to happen? What did I do wrong?"

"Be quiet," Merovich told him.

"Please," he cried. "You are supposed to protect me!"

"I do as the king bids," Merovich said. "If the king wants me to cut your throat …" He laid a hand on his knife.

Alfred gasped, fully realizing how much trouble he might be in. "What did I do?" he cried. "I am sorry! I did not mean to do anything wrong!"

"Silence."

Alfred hugged his knees and sobbed and waited for what felt like hours before he heard Wihtred shouting from the base of the stairs. His heart leapt at the sound of a friendly voice, but Wihtred was far away. Alfred ran to the door, but Merovich blocked his exit.

"I am here! Wihtred!" Alfred shouted.

"Silence." Merovich commanded.

"Alfred!" Wihtred's voice echoed up the stairwell. "I am here with you, my lord!"

Alfred wanted to shout back, but Merovich glared at him so hard it was like a weight that he could physically feel. Alfred went to his bed pallet and sat still, listening to Wihtred's voice continuing to echo loud prayers, and reminders of God's love. Alfred closed his eyes and thanked God for Wihtred and hoped that no soldiers became annoyed enough to harm him.

He also prayed for Wihtred to be allowed to come upstairs to him, but it was the king who came to his cell as the light from the windows across the hall was beginning to fade. Alfred stood up and tried to straighten his black gown, which he was still wearing from school. He wanted to look proper for the king, whom he had not seen since his father left. Charles was swathed in a cloak of royal blue, with bright yellow and red threading, and jewels that glittered in the dim, candle-lit room.

"Your highness," Alfred bowed.

Charles paced the short length of the room, glaring at Alfred as if he were a juicy leg of lamb that was about to be devoured.

"Your treatment here," Charles began to speak in a low and rumbling voice, "is dependent upon the treatment that my daughter receives on your home island."

"Yes, your highness," Alfred said, because he did not know what else to say.

"Well," Charles growled. "My dear Judith is being held as A CAPTIVE. Your father has been deposed, and your eldest brother leads the charge! My mind can only imagine what they have in their plans for my sweet, innocent daughter, but be assured that your tortures will be no less!"

Alfred started to cry again.

"You!" Charles pointed an accusing finger very close to Alfred's nose. "You are going to write a letter to Aethelbald, and you are going to procure the proper treatment of YOUR QUEEN!"

Alfred could only cry.

"Bring parchment!" Charles bellowed, and footsteps scurried through the hall.

Alfred heard Wihtred's voice again. He tried to choke back his sobs so that he could make out the words in the distance.

"I am here, Alfred!" Wihtred was shouting. "God is with you!"

Servants rushed in with parchment, quill, and ink. One servant took a seat on the ground and dipped the quill, then poised it above the parchment, and waited.

"Alfred," Charles stood over the boy. "You will write to your brother and beg for Judith to be recognized the queen of your father's kingdom. If this is not promised, then let your brother know that you will also be confined within this chamber for as long as she is denied her due."

Alfred rubbed his swollen eyes. "I am to write to Aethelbald?" he asked, his voice squeaking.

"Tell the scribe what you wish to say." Charles motioned to the man sitting on the floor. "When he is done writing, you will sign the letter."

"Yes, your highness."

"Well, how do you begin a salutation to your brother?"

"My dearest Aethelbald …" Alfred said, and the scribe scribbled furiously. "May God speed you good health."

"Go on," Charles insisted.

Alfred listened to the scratching sound of the quill on paper. He was terrified. He did not know what he could say that was going to please the king, and he did not understand what being "deposed" really meant.

"I beg of you," Charles started talking, and the furious scratching continued. "For my own sake and safety, to see the crowning of Queen Judith. My benevolent benefactor, the King of West Francia, holds me responsible for her righteous treatment. I beg of you a promise that she is to be restored and sit as co-regent, as our father, King Aethelwulf, contracted, and for this to be done forthwith." Charles watched Alfred as if he dared him to protest to any of the words. "Now sign it."

Alfred went to the scribe, took the feather quill and wrote his name at the bottom of the page. Charles looked over the letter, then gave it back to the scribe and nodded for him to leave.

"This will be sent to your brother. If he refuses, then I will send a letter to your father. Perhaps he needs help bringing his rebellious son to heel."

Alfred had no response. He watched King Charles until the man seemed to realize that he was threatening a small child, and with that, he cleared his throat and left the room. Merovich stepped back in, and it was quiet enough for Alfred to hear Wihtred still shouting from the lower level.

The shouting stopped and Alfred heard steps approaching. Merovich halted the intruder in the hall, and Alfred heard a servant talking.

"The king says keep him in here with the foreign lord. His shouting is unbearable."

Merovich stepped aside and Wihtred hurried into the room, eagerly scooping up Alfred, who ran into his arms.

"I was so scared," Alfred sobbed.

"Shh." Wihtred looked nervously toward Merovich, and Alfred stopped talking. They sat in silence in the room under Merovich's watchful eyes, and the Franciscan guard remained in the doorway while they said their prayers.

Alfred woke in the night and the room was filled with darkness. He sat upright and listened, hearing the familiar breathing of Wihtred close by. He thanked God for Wihtred, as he edged his feet across the bed pallet. Climbing down to the floor, he searched for the chamber pot, but stopped in his tracks at the sight of Merovich's eyes, glowing like wolf eyes in the darkness. Alfred relieved his bladder on the rushes, blushing crimson at his bad manners, but he was too scared to stop himself. He hurried to climb back into his bed and cuddle against Wihtred, praying for a letter from his brother, or even better, word from his father.

"I am scared, Wihtred," Alfred muttered to the darkness.

"And do you think that Daniel was not scared in the lion's den?" Wihtred answered. "What did Daniel do?"

"He prayed, and God preserved him."

"You are being tested now, my lord. Do not disappoint God."

Alfred did pray, that night and the following morning, and every day. But Merovich never left the door of the cell, even when Alfred was kneeling before the altar in the east corner of his room. Alfred was praying and had just crossed himself when he heard commotion in the hall, which announced that guards were coming.

Alfred remained on his knees, eyes closed, and head bent. "Do you think that they will kill me now?" he whispered.

Wihtred laid a hand on his shoulder.

The Saxon lord stood up straight to face them as Merovich stepped aside and allowed the guards into the room.

"Lord Alfred. King Charles has urgent business in the East. Prepare yourself for travel."

Alfred looked up at Wihtred.

"The lord will be ready at the king's command," Wihtred assured the guards.

"See that he is."

The guards turned from the room, showing their backs to Alfred as they withdrew. Wihtred's jaw fell open at the insult, but he did not speak of it. Alfred took it as a sign that his life was to be short. If the guards could show their backs to him, he believed that King Charles had already given the order to exterminate him. He sat quietly while the Franconian servants packed his things, and as he watched them he clung to the handle of his Seax, praying for strength, praying that his brother would send a letter that might save him, or that his father might burst into the Hall of Paris and demand an audience with King Charles. No one came for him except the guards.


	12. Chapter 12

Alfred was brought by the guards to the courtyard, where he mounted his horse. Cloud whickered softly to him as he took his saddle, and Alfred patted the horse's neck. King Charles smiled at him, playing the part of the gracious host, but Alfred was wary, as if the king were a dog that had recently bitten. Wihtred rode several paces back, his eyes trained on Merovich, who watched Alfred every second.

"Let the boys ride close to me," Charles commanded.

Alfred saw that Carloman was the only one of Charles' sons riding along on the journey. Alfred did not want to ride near any of Charles' sons, but especially not Carloman. He tried to position himself so that Carloman would have to ride on the other side of the king, but the Frankish boy maneuvered himself within the convoy to ride close enough to Alfred that he could talk without his father hearing him, and he began to amuse himself.

"If I knock you from your horse right now, my men will swear that you fell," Carloman informed him.

"No one will lie for you." Alfred glared at him.

"These are my men. They are loyal to me. All you have is an unarmed cleric who is loyal to you."

"A man does not need swords if God and truth are on his side." Alfred lifted his chin.

"Pah!" Carloman laughed out loud. "Look around you. Every important man in the world has guards around him, even the Pope. Everyone but you."

Alfred looked down.

"Are you going to cry?" Carloman teased.

Anger caused tears to burn in Alfred's eyes, and then he was angry with himself, and Carloman was smirking with satisfaction.

"You are weak," Carloman sniggered.

"You are prideful," Alfred accused. "More prideful than any fourth son has a right to be. You think that you are more important than others, but you are less."

Carloman rolled his eyes. "I am more important in the eyes of my father than are you in the eyes of yours."

"You know nothing."

"I know that your father left you here. He abandoned you to whatever might happen and left you with no guards. Now your father is dead because your own brother killed him and took over your homeland."

"You are lying!" Alfred growled deep in his throat.

"How else do you think a king can be 'deposed'? Your father was killed by the hands of your own brother, because he was weak. And when we find out what has happened to Judith, then we will know what your fate will be."

Alfred lowered his head and studied the horse's mane in front of him, his face flushed with boiling frustration. Carloman did not tire of tormenting him and continued talking in a faint voice as the horses plodded through the rich farmland of West Francia. Alfred looked out at the scenery and tried to ignore his companion.

The day was warm, and the rolling green hills were covered with wildflowers. The sun rose to its zenith in the southern sky, and then the shadows started to stretch out before them. Charles found a hilltop where they could picnic, and there stopped his horse to climb the hill on foot. Alfred and Carloman dismounted and, standing in the shadow of their horses, Carloman shoved Alfred. Alfred was a scrawny child, but sturdier than he appeared, otherwise he would have fallen into a fresh pile of manure, instead he only stepped in it.

Wihtred came around the horses to see Alfred with one foot in a pile of shit. He had not seen the push, and did not ask, but went to work helping Alfred change and clean his boot. Alfred battled the tears that burned his eyes while all around him people were busy. A great deal of furniture was unloaded from the carts and carried up the hill where King Charles waited.

The servants set up a blue canopy for the king's tent, and an impromptu hunt was mustered while the king and his son, and the other important men who did not feel like hunting, sat back to eat apples. Clouds floated through the sky, the horses stamped and nickered at the base of the hill, and Alfred found a place among the cushions, as far away from Carloman as he could be, and was nearly asleep when the hunters returned with a deer on a sling. He rolled into the sun to watch them, and the light warmed his face while the meal was processed and cooked.

They remained on the hilltop long after the last of the venison was gone. Alfred began to wonder if they would travel any more that day, and then the king gave the order to move out. Merovich helped Alfred into his saddle, and the servants were left to pack up the campsite and reload the carts. Alfred looked over his shoulder to see the bulk of the convoy fade behind them. As the shadows stretched longer in front of them, Charles made haste to a nearby house, where the lord of the manor met them at the door.

"Here we stop for the night," Charles announced.

Carloman was relieved to get out of the saddle, and Alfred was relieved that Carloman had forgotten to abuse him for several hours. Even more relieving, Carloman knew some of the noble boys at the house, and he went off with them, leaving Alfred to himself. The following day was much the same, and little progress was made, but every manor house was investigated, and every lord in their path tried to out-do the others with feasting and hospitality.

Alfred stayed close to Wihtred, and they prayed together every morning and evening, hoping that they would get word from Aethelbald; something, anything, to ease everyone's minds. But no such word came, and they traveled further east, further away from anything familiar.

The long line of royals, pages, banner carriers, soldiers, clerics, and servants rode out of West Francia and into the realm of Charles' nephew, Emperor Lothair the Second, where they were met by Lothair's troops and briskly escorted to the mountains. The trek was long, but it was accomplished in a matter of a few days with Lothair's soldiers leading them, and when they crossed a line of mountainous foothills, the soldiers stopped and stood watching to make sure that they left the middle kingdom.

The mountain path into East Francia was narrow, and they had to ride single file. Charles banner carriers went first, followed by his five personal guards and then the king himself. Carloman rode behind the king and Alfred followed. Wihtred managed to fall in line behind Alfred, and Carloman's men had to take a further position. Alfred could hear them grumble, but neither he, nor Wihtred, cared about that. Alfred looked back at his friend and was comforted to see him so close.

"I hope that we are better received by the king's brother than we were by his nephew," Wihtred muttered.

Alfred remained silent. They spent the day climbing the mountains, and they made camp when the sun went down. They were still on the western slope of the mountain, but Charles' guides found a plateau that was almost flat, and there the royals rolled out their beds and huddled around a single fire. Alfred saw Merovich seated in the shifting darkness beyond the fire, his eyes reflecting the firelight. Carloman also glared at Alfred with malice, and even though he was quiet in front of his father, Alfred could sense a threat coursing through the veins of the other boy.

The following morning Alfred woke, surprised that his throat had not been cut in the night, as he waited daily for his untimely end. He took his saddle and they accomplished the summit of the mountain and began to descend before the light of the sun stabbed their eyes. As they came down the mountainside, Alfred looked for soldiers, or a house, or a welcoming party, but no such thing existed, only one mountain after another showed in his view. They climbed throughout the day, forded rivers and traversed forests until Alfred felt that they were in a different world.

A clearing opened in front of them and boasted a lodge amid the woods, with peat smoke rolling from the eves. Alfred did not know if he should be afraid or relieved as he looked at the East Frankish soldiers who came to the doorway. They were dressed in blue and red, and their banners were a blue field with diagonal red stripes. Alfred had not seen the banner when he was in Rome with his father.

Wihtred pulled back on his horse's reins to stand next to Alfred, and they waited for King Charles who rode forward to speak to the soldiers. Alfred nervously watched from a distance, and when Charles motioned for them to follow, Alfred heard Carloman breathe a sigh of relief.

"All is well, my lord," said one of Carloman's men.

"You never know what one of my uncles or cousins will do," Carloman swore, spitting on the ground. "A treacherous lot I was born to."

The Franciscan guards around Carloman glanced at Alfred. They did not want him to hear such things. Alfred turned away as if he were not paying attention, but Carloman's trepidation added to his own as they went into a long hall. The building was reminiscent of the tunnel-shaped halls that Alfred could scarcely remember from Wessex. Alfred followed the others and took a place at one of the long benches that lined the room. A woman placed a basket of food in front of him, and Alfred looked over the offering of bread, fruit, and cheese.

"His royal highness," an East Franciscan servant announced. "Prince Charles of East Francia."

Alfred turned to see the nephew of King Charles, Prince Charles, who was short and rotund, almost to a laughable degree, but no one was laughing. Alfred watched King Charles of West Francia greet

Prince Charles of East Francia.

"God be with you," the king said.

"God speed, King Charles. Uncle … Charles." The Easterner said to the man who was only a few years his elder.

"Nephew, where is your father?"

Prince Charles cued the musicians who were waiting on hand, and Alfred was fascinated by the sounds of the musical instruments of the east as he looked at the tapestries and the clothing of the people around him. The animal figures woven into the tapestries were more angular than Alfred remembered ever seeing them depicted before. The clothing of the easterners seemed to be dyed from unconventional materials, as the colors differed in brightness and hue than the colors that Alfred wore. Everything around him had a foreign feeling, and he remembered just how far he was from home.

"AND WHERE IS HE?" King Charles shouted, interrupting Alfred's thoughts.

The musicians faltered, but Prince Charles motioned for them to continue.

The older Charles was in a rage. "WHAT COULD BE MORE IMPORTANT?"

A soothing tone from the younger Charles while the musicians played their merry tune louder. Alfred, along with everyone else in the room, was shocked silent, and trying not to stare.

"King Ludwig was called away on business with my brothers. It was very important to the king that you be met by a member of the family. I was most honored when he asked me to come."

"King LOUIS," Charles hissed. "Whatever he wants by calling himself Ludwig, I remember the name our father gave him! If the name Ludwig is to endear him to the people, then he must forget his Carolingian blood completely." He glared at the assemblage of eastern men.

The younger Charles snuffed. "I assure you; the king does not forget himself, his father, or anything else. He is quite sharp of mind. Oh, my brother hopes to inherit father's kingdom one day, but it will never happen, as the old man will never die."

"Most kings like to tell themselves that they will not," the elder Charles informed. "Louis was raised by my father when he was a young man, by the time of my own birth, our father was aged, and wizened. That is the father who raised me, one with a deep reflection of the world, and knowledge of religion. Your father thinks he will live forever but time marches forth."

The younger Charles sighed. "What do you WANT, Uncle?"

"I want to speak to my brother, as we have done every second year for near a decade! We must continue to work together and be decisive, as we have been. His letters informed me that he would be here."

"I apologize, Uncle. He is not here."

"I can SEE that he is not!"

Charles was beginning to rage again. Alfred could see his face going red while bright blue cords rose in his neck. The younger Charles shook his head. Alfred saw a few more words exchanged, then Prince Charles stood up and motioned his guards. King Charles was astonished to see his nephew's men leaving the house, showing their backs to the King of West Francia.

"Do you think your father will not get word of this treatment?" Charles yelled at his nephew.

Alfred tried to control the shaking that gripped his body. He did not want to be near the king when he was angry, and neither did his own son, who slunk to a far corner with his guards. King Charles continued to yell long after the eastern prince was heard riding away. The eastern servants who were left behind took their opportunities to sneak out as well, and Charles raged more.

"Do you know how lowly the master regards you if his SERVANTS will disobey?!" Charles shouted.

Alfred moved to the back of the hall and found the altar, where he knelt and signed himself with a cross. He heard the king rampaging through the night, but he concentrated on his prayers, and whispered them to himself until the hall finally calmed, and the king slept. Alfred opened his eyes and saw that Wihtred was kneeling next to him. The bishop peeked at his young charge. He knew that Alfred was scared, and Alfred could sense his sympathy, but neither of them could do anything to change their situation.

When they knew that it was safe, and the king was snoring, they got up and stretched their legs, and found a place on the floor to sleep. The following morning was strained as Charles' men collected themselves and began their journey with the red light of the dawn at their backs. Alfred rode next to Wihtred, his head down while he tried not to attract any of the outraged king's attention.

Prince Carloman slowed his horse to step next to Alfred. "He will kill you soon." Carloman nodded his head toward Merovich.

Alfred looked at the pointy-bearded, black-eyed guard, who was staring right back at him.

"I am surprised that they did not do it at my uncle's hall." Carloman flicked an insect. "I think they would have, if not for the distraction."

Alfred looked ahead of them, toward the rising mountains that would take them back to Italy, and then to the western kingdom. Alfred was not killed that day, nor was he killed the following day.

As they came closer to Paris, he renewed his hope for a letter, but found that there had still been no word from Aethelbald. "They will kill me now, for certain." Alfred whispered to Wihtred when they were back in the solitude of their cell.

"He will not," Wihtred assured. "The king is quick-tempered, but not unreasonable."

"They will come," the little lord prophesied. "And you will not be able to stop them."


	13. Chapter 13

Alfred woke with the sunrise and yawned as he knelt at his private altar in the corner of his cell. Wihtred helped him wash, then combed his hair, and they made their way down the stone steps where Merovich followed close behind them. Alfred hummed a hymn as they walked down the stone-enclosed staircase, and the sound echoed eerily off the walls.

The courtyard was filled with activity, but Alfred was disinterested in any of it as he continued to hum to himself. As with every day since he returned from East Francia, Alfred considered that this could be his last day. If the king decided it was just, he could order anything he wanted, and there was nothing that Wihtred was going to be able to do, and for a time, it worried him. But Alfred had realized that he could not dwell on the possibility, so, he hummed when he was nervous, which was often, and he hummed his way into the main hall.

The king was just entering, and Alfred made his way to the table to take his place between Charles youngest son and his eldest daughter remaining on the continent. The boy on his right was so little he could barely hold his own spoon, and the girl on his left was about a year younger than Alfred.

The entire hall bowed their heads over their empty plates and prayed to bless the meal, then they were served, king and queen first, followed by their eldest sons. The children sat to the left of the king, beside the queen, and to the other side were the important men who carried favor with the king, who he was recognizing with a seat at the table. Everyone else sat at lower tables, and more on the floors, denoting their status, giving everyone an unobstructed view of the best-dressed people in the hall. Alfred had learned to dress like them, and he blended in with the king's children, though none of them ever wanted to speak to him.

Alfred saw Wisigard sitting with her mother at a table full of important women. She smiled at him, and Alfred looked away from her before he smiled, too. He did not want her servants to notice, as they disapproved of his attention toward her. She had changed greatly in the year that Alfred had been with her at school, and she was almost old enough to go to her husband.

As they began their meal, King Charles called to hear the messengers. A man from Rome was brought in first, and Charles sat up, his interest already piqued. Alfred paused with a spoonful of porridge in the air and waited to hear what the man had to say.

"Good King Charles, King of West Francia, of the Spanish March, and of Flanders, I humble myself before you in your great Hall of Paris, a fortress known throughout the learned world. I thank you, good king, for inviting me to your court."

"Stop your flattering and give me your news." Charles picked up his jeweled cup.

"Yes, your royal highness. Pope Benedict has been called home by the Lord, and Nicholas the First was elected."

Alfred dropped his spoon and crossed himself as all the air rushed from his lungs. He looked down at the edge of the table, consumed with disbelief. He had traveled to Rome with his father to pledge the allegiance of Wessex to God's representative on Earth, and now that the pope was gone. And there was another, already. Alfred shook his head.

"We will send an envoy to Rome to swear West Francia's allegiance," Charles stated. "What other news do you have?"

But the loss and re-election of popes was the only thing that anyone wanted to discuss. The buzz throughout the hall made it difficult for Alfred to hear what the other messengers had to say, so he mused himself by guessing their origins based on the cut, cloth, or color of their clothing. If he could hear their accent, or if saw the emblem holding their family crest before he could guess, then the game was lost. He watched them without expression as they delivered the news that he could not hear. He glanced at Charles reactions and noted the perfectly statuesque nature of the queen, who ate little, and reacted to nothing. The meal ended and the preparations for the envoy to Rome were begun.

School convened that morning, and Alfred was there on time and in proper attire, sitting in the same spot on the floor that he had sat the previous day. Charles' sons arrived just as the master was about to begin the lesson, and they all sat close to Alfred and crowded him and teased him under their breath.

The masters attempted to hold class, but it was not until Alfred abated, and moved himself close to Wisigard that the king's sons settled in and began to listen. Wisigard's attendants watched him with disapproval, but Alfred kept his head down and minded his work. When they broke that afternoon, Wisigard touched his arm, and Alfred looked up at her, trying to hide the tears in his eyes.

"I know that it is hard for you," she whispered.

Alfred shook his head and turned away, but she grabbed his hand and made him turn back to her.

"You are not without friends."

"I know." Alfred pulled away. "God watches over me."

She smiled, but Alfred did not want her pity. He turned from the cathedral and began the journey back to the great hall. The princes rode ahead of him, and Alfred was relieved. Wihtred and Merovich trailed behind him, and Alfred wondered what it would be like to have complete solitude. They rode through the village and to the massive bridge that took them to the city. Alfred arrived in the courtyard to see King Charles calling all his sons to him.

"I have come to a decision," King Charles announced to Lothair, Charles, Louis, and Carloman, as well as to Alfred who came to stand behind them. "I will make the trip to Rome myself. I will not send the envoy. Lothair is going to be in charge here in Paris while I am away, and Charles, and Louis, I have assignments for you in Burgundy and Rheims. Carloman, you will come with me."

"Yes, Father," they said in unison.

Alfred waited to be dismissed, imagining that he would remain in his prison in the wall, following the same daily pattern, until Carloman looked behind him and said, "What about Alfred?"

Charles looked at his ward and considered him for the first time. "He and his cleric will also come with me. His father would be pleased to know that he made a second trip to Rome. Merovich, prepare him."

"Yes, my lord."

Alfred was dizzy. The king's comment suggested that his father WAS alive. Alfred's heart pounded in his chest. He waited until he was alone with Wihtred again.

"Did he say that my father is alive? My father will be pleased? He said that, did he not?"

"There is hope," Wihtred confirmed.

"I think he is not dead," Alfred decided. "I feel that he is not."

"Back to Rome!" Wihtred announced, a smile creeping across his face. "It is such an incredible place."

"Do you think we will see my father there? King Charles said my father would be pleased that I am going back. Perhaps Father will be coming to swear his fealty to the new pope as well!"

"King Charles is right. Your father would be very pleased to know that you are headed back to Rome again. And I am honored to come with you."

"I could not go without you, Wihtred," Alfred confessed. "You are the only person that I have. I would be lonely if I were away from you, too."

"God watches over you, my lord."

They tried to sleep that night, but they were both too excited. Alfred drifted off around dawn and woke instantly with the trumpets in the courtyard. He and Wihtred took their places among the caravan, and Alfred rode Cloud. Merovich rode behind him and several more guards rode around them. They started out over the bridge from Paris to the mainland and the peasants lined the streets and cheered. Their travel through the Frankish kingdom was easy going, but then they were in Lothair's kingdom again.

A legion of men draped in purple met them at the border, and Alfred followed the king's lead as they marched their horses into the thick of them. The emperor's men parted for them and surrounded their own guards as they all marched south, stopping at the hospices each night until they reached the mountains.

On the way south, the passes upward were gradual, and once they were over the first peak, the passes became narrow. Alfred went up, forcing himself not to look down, but this time, he could not help but see the deep, yawning caverns. He remembered Charles' lost wagon of treasures, and he prayed that his horse's feet would be sure.

He looked out over the foothills as the thick clouds were left above them and he could see for miles across the plains. Alfred strained his eyes, but he could not yet see Rome. He wished that they were there but reaching the bottom of the mountains was almost as good.

Charles commanded a rest at the base of the mountains, and they stayed there for several days. Alfred used the time to pray in the open air, which was a different experience than praying while locked up in his cell. He knelt in the grass and ran his fingers through the dirt, and he meditated deeply on the new pope and the events to come. He asked God to show him the secrets, to tell him what to say and what to avoid. He mentally begged the Lord to be with him in his trying times because, even though he showed strength on the outside, Alfred was terrified and trembling on the inside, every day. Even Wihtred did not know how scared he was

When he was done praying, he and Wihtred went back to the tent where the royal family was resting. The king's furniture was still making its way through the mountain, and Alfred wondered if any of the wagons would be lost. They waited for several days, and then Alfred got to see the wagons being lowered with levers and long ropes, down one level at a time as they spanned the winding path. Charles took stock of his inventory, and then they were on their way again to the middle of the known world, to Rome.

The shining, marble-covered walls stunned their eyes from a distance, and it still took two days to finish the journey. The entrance into the Holy City was only slightly-less impressive when entered from the northern side. Alfred remembered the huge arch through which they walked when he arrived with his father at the harbor, and there was nothing so magnificent at the mountain side of the sprawling metropolis, but it was still impressive.

They passed the farmers' fields first, watching the terrain grow greener and greener as they came closer to the first wall. Alfred gave his horse its head, and Cloud slowed his gait as they both inspected the bountiful vegetation. Peasants in the fields, haggard and hunched, were carrying water to their crops.

As they came closer, the hovels turned to houses, and their group came to a tight crowd in the city square. From the height of their horses' backs, Alfred and his party could see over the heads of the commoners who pressed in to see the bound figures of three ragged prisoners. One man was sitting straddled on a thin plank of wood with heavy weights tied to his ankles, so that his body was slowly going to be sliced in half. One man was tied, spread-eagled on a large wheel, and upside down, howling in pain. His legs and arms were twisted and bent, one foot facing the wrong way. Blood poured from the man's face and caked in his hair. The torturer was cutting small slices out of the third man, who was tied to a pole with kindling piled at his feet. He man being cut was crying and begging for mercy.

"I wonder how we'll kill you." Carloman sniggered, glancing over at Alfred.

Carloman took joy in the gruesome spectacle before them, but Charles walked them around the crowd, looking slightly sickened by the display. They passed the second wall and they were among the ancient villas, which were no longer inhabited, but gave them a glimpse at what the city would have been like over four hundred years earlier. Alfred saw the aqueducts in the distance, but he still could not imagine the ingenuity that it took for men to control water.

They entered the inner ring of the city and the noise and smell became overwhelming. Alfred put his sleeve over his nose, and Cloud tossed his head. Wihtred rode close, and Merovich was right behind him, which kept Carloman from being able to talk to Alfred, much to the young lord's relief.

The poor houses against the wall, and the streets were filled with fruit carts, filthy children, dogs, and loose chickens. Every inch of space was crammed with something, from rain barrels to homeless families, every corner was full, so that it seemed to Alfred that if one more person entered, the walls themselves should fall outward. But the people moved out of the way of King Charles' caravan as the long line of horses and carts traveled to a more affluent section of the town, which was no less crowded, but far more orderly.

The well-dressed people stood aside and waved or cheered to them as they passed, and Alfred examined their clothing for hints as to their affiliations, but they all seemed local. It was the next ring of wall that they entered which led them to many people of different skin colors, different clothing styles, and he began to see banners of different houses, some of which he could recognize.

"Here, your highness!" People called from the street to invite them into inns, or to try smoked meats that were cooking outside of large houses. Alfred could see Leo's Wall, and the white castle that was the West Frankish embassy. He saw the basilicas, and atop the hill, he saw the Vatican as well. Charles ignored the hawkers and led them to a house with a large courtyard, where they rode their horses and dismounted as the gate behind them closed, keeping out the less important people.

"Your highness!" A fat man in expensive white robes stepped forward from a receiving line and extended his arms in welcome. "God has blessed your sacred journey! Please, come into the bathhouse and relieve your aching bones."

Alfred patted his tired horse on the neck, having no desire to go into a bathhouse with the group of men, but Merovich compelled him with a gentle push, and then Wihtred wrapped his arms around Alfred, and placed his body between his charge and the guard. Merovich did not care, as long as Alfred followed the king. The first room of the bathhouse was a large space with benches along the walls, where the men began to undress and place their clothes.

"My father did not take me here," Alfred said, his voice shaking with fear and embarrassment.

Wihtred patted his shoulder and, blushing, began to remove his dirty cassock. Alfred averted his eyes from the white limbs of the red-faced men, all weathered from the sun, but soft and round underneath their clothes. As they undressed, the men moved to the second chamber of the house and Alfred could see a large pool of steaming water beyond. They submerged, and there gave themselves more privacy. Alfred was horrified to undress in front of other people, but he did so, and hurried to the water to hide his own white softness.

He squatted down so that the water was above his shoulders, and he tried not to look at anyone, but he noticed that Carloman was pinching his nose and dunking his head under the water, and Alfred thought that it looked like he was also having fun. He tried it, and nearly panicked when his face was submerged, but after he stood up and realized that he was fine, he went back under again. The warm water dissolved the dirt from his skin and his hair, and he was almost sad to get out with the rest of the crowd, where they were given towels.

Alfred felt that the dirt of the long trip, and smells of horse flesh and leather, were gone from him. They dressed from fresh clothes in the trunks that had been carried in from their wagons, then walked back into the courtyard and into a house which was filled with large, plush pillows. Charles led them by stretching out on one of the pillows and groaning.

"This is a most welcome respite." Charles motioned for everyone else to lie down.

Alfred took a place near Wihtred, as far from Charles and Carloman as he could manage. They were given fruit, nuts, and wine, and then left alone to slumber. Alfred found himself drowsy and leaned his head on Wihtred's shoulder while his heavy lids fell closed, but he did not sleep long before servants arrived with fresh clothes. As Alfred was taking off his Fankish tunic and finishing the ties on his Roman tunic, Wihtred was given a fresh bishop's cassock, much fancier than the one he had arrived in.

"Oh dear," Wihtred muttered, looking over the clothes. "This is far too expensive." But he put it on. A servant handed him a jeweled rosary, and he hesitated.

"You look good," Alfred encouraged.

"I would hate to appear prideful, my lord," Wihtred admitted.

"But you will most likely stand before the pope today," Alfred said.

"All the more reason." Wihtred blushed and stepped into felt shoes, then he and Alfred followed the king on the next leg of their journey. Alfred expected to go to the large white castle next to the basilica, but he realized that he was going to see the pope first.

"Mind your tongues," Charles instructed them as they made their way out of the courtyard on foot, to the steep flagstone steps that led them up a flowered hill. "What one pope has condemned; another supports. Entire vills have been confiscated and the new pope has gifted them to more fitting lords, and great men have fallen out of favor faster than the seasons can change."

Alfred looked at Carloman, who did not appear to be listening to his father's words. Charles did not notice his son's eyes wandering around the amazing courtyard view, or the king might have hit him hard enough to knock him off the stone staircase. They reached the top and entered another courtyard where servants met them and led them to a large waiting room full of dignitaries from several nations. Alfred investigated their clothing, the colors of different dyes, and of course, the emblems which they carried to denote their nationality.

Carloman fidgeted, but Alfred sat perfectly still while he examined the walls, amazed that they could be built so high; an ancient construction, made of ancient knowledge, like nothing that could be duplicated in the current world. The King of West Francia was important, even among an entire room of kings, and they did not remain in the waiting room long before Charles was called inside.

Alfred's group was beckoned through a massive doorway, upon which hung huge, thick wooden doors, inlaid with glittering jewels. Alfred stayed close to Wihtred, and they walked into the next room where walls were decorated in gold-leaf and glittering jewels, sparkling with shining swirls of pattern. In the center of the room a small pool had been carved out of the floor, and boasted crystal clear water that had, at some point, rained in through the skylight above them. Sunlight poured in through the round opening in the ceiling, and the resultant beam for a moment obscured their view of a golden throne, and the person seated upon the throne.

The pope was an old man, and his cassock was purer white than Alfred had ever seen. He had a white beard and a kindly face underneath a very tall, conical-shaped hat. He was surrounded by old cardinals, dressed in their blood-red cassocks and hats that were tall, but only half the size of the pope's. Alfred thought that every man there must have been old enough to remember the previous century, and he had the impression that between them they must be almost as wise as the Lord himself. They spoke to the King Charles in Italian, and he responded in kind. Alfred understood the pleasantries being passed between them, but no one spoke to him directly, so he listened to the king make promises and to the pope give blessings, and as a member of Charles' group, Alfred received a blessing from the pope as well, and he could feel the soul inside his body dance with joy because of it.

Their meeting was short, but Alfred felt that his life had changed in those few moments. As they turned to leave the glittering, sun-filled room, Alfred's soul felt lighter. He wanted to ask the Pope for a blessing for his father or ask someone if they had news of the Kingdom of Wessex. He had felt for a long time like he was in a limbo, but in that moment, he was at peace.

From the glittering room, through the sparkling waiting room, and back to the flowering courtyard, Alfred felt renewed as they followed the servants further. They were led to a portico where long, sheer linens hung as sunshades, and billowed in the breeze. Under the linen they were shown a large, open door, which brought them to the king's chambers. The room was very like the chambers Alfred had stayed in with his own father on his previous sojourn to Rome. The room was furnished with large, plush pillows, which Carloman fell into immediately. There was a long, oak table and cushions, beset with luscious fruits and wine, where Charles and his men took their places, and in the back of the tall-ceilinged, paved room, stood a glittering altar with a polished, silver crucifix hanging above it. Alfred was drawn to the altar like a moth to a flame, and he and Wihtred crossed themselves and knelt on the soft altar cloth where they clasped their hands together and thanked God for the blessing from the Pope.

"What news?" Charles was asking the men after they had each poured a glass of wine. Alfred tried to ignore them, but their words buzzed at his ears.

"The raiders are in the East, as well as on the Island of the Britons. We have received letters from the King of Wessex and the King of East Anglia, begging for help."

Alfred did not open his eyes. His breath was caught in his throat.

"King Aethelbald has my daughter," Charles reminded them. Alfred's heart sank into his belly. He longed to hear 'King Aethelwulf'.

"We should have far more care for a possible attack on Paris." The Franciscan adviser spoke as wine poured into goblets.

"What can we do?" Charles asked.

"We can call that raider, Weland, and have him show our men how to defend against his kind."

"And how long before that dog turns on us, and bites the hand that feeds him?" Another adviser interrupted.

"Send word to the raider, Weland," Charles ordered. "Have him come to Paris and show our men how to defend us."

"We will need your royal seal, your highness. The other men will not believe that you wish to take the advice of such a beast."

Alfred closed his eyes tighter and clasped his hands together until they were numb. If Aethelbald was the king, where was his father? No one would tell him, and he begged God for a vision to make everything clear, or for his father to speak to him if he were no more than a ghost.

Alfred was at his prayers even longer than his bishop, and only left the altar when servants came to call them to the evening feast. Alfred allowed himself to be dressed, and his hair combed by the manservants, and then he followed the King of West Francia, and Carloman, and they went to a feast which hosted several other kings, princes, the emperor and his wife, Empress Teutberga, who looked to be the saddest person Alfred had ever seen. Courses were laid out before him and he picked at them, wine was poured into his beautiful glass goblet, and he sipped at it. Deep in thought, Alfred got up to wander through the dining hall, and Merovich got up to follow him.

He had seen so little of Carloman, he forgot to be wary, and then the Fransiscan prince was standing in front of him, drunk and staggering, being held up by two friends; one a Roman noble's boy, the other a Spanish prince. They were important enough for Alfred to know who they were, even if they were not wearing the crests of their houses on their sleeves.

"If it is not the heathen orphan." Carloman shouted to be heard over the music and the chattering of hundreds of party guests.

Alfred's blood boiled. He was already in turmoil over the unanswered questions about his father. He did not have the patience to deal with Carloman, especially a drunk Carloman. He turned around to go back the way he came.

Carloman grabbed him by the shoulder. "I am only joking with you," he insisted.

Alfred stopped and turned back to look at him, but only because Carloman was strong, even when he was wasted.

"I am only joking," Carloman said again, squeezing Alfred's shoulder to hold him in place. "You know if my brother ever killed our father, I would want to take revenge. Do you dream about killing your brother?"

"Carloman." The Spanish prince looked concerned. He glanced at Alfred who did not break his steady gaze into Carloman's eyes. "I do not think this is funny," the Spanish prince said.

"The only thing that is funny is a Brit calling himself a royal. His family rules at the pleasure of my father. He is little more than a peasant."

The Roman boy was shocked, and his hand flew to cover his mouth in an expression of surprise, and through his hand he said, "you should not treat him so."

"So what?" Carloman glowered at his friends. "Brits are nearly heathens anyway."

With a force and rage he had never allowed himself to acknowledge, and with the flashes of all the times he had been mistreated by the Fransiscan princes, Alfred balled his hand into a fist and rocked Carloman's jaw with one perfectly aimed punch.


	14. Chapter 14

The shining, marble-covered walls stunned their eyes from a distance, and it still took two days to finish the journey. The entrance into the Holy City was only slightly-less impressive when entered from the northern side. Alfred remembered the huge arch through which they walked when he arrived with his father at the harbor, and there was nothing so magnificent at the mountain side of the sprawling metropolis, but it was still impressive. They passed the farmers' fields first, watching the terrain grow greener and greener as they came closer to the first wall.

Alfred gave his horse its head, and Cloud slowed his gait as they both inspected the bountiful vegetation. Peasants in the fields, haggard and hunched, were carrying water to their crops. As they came closer, the hovels turned to houses, and their group came to a tight crowd in the city square. From the height of their horses' backs, Alfred and his party could see over the heads of the commoners who pressed in to see the bound figures of three ragged prisoners. One man was sitting straddled on a thin plank of wood with heavy weights tied to his ankles, so that his body was slowly going to be sliced in half. One man was tied, spread-eagled on a large wheel, and upside down, howling in pain. His legs and arms were twisted and bent, one foot facing the wrong way. Blood poured from the man's face and caked in his hair. The torturer was cutting small slices out of the third man, who was tied to a pole with kindling piled at his feet. He man being cut was crying and begging for mercy.

"I wonder which way we'll kill you," Carloman sniggered, glancing over at Alfred.

Carloman took joy in the gruesome spectacle before them, but Charles walked them around the crowd, looking slightly sickened by the display. They passed the second wall and they were among the ancient villas, which were no longer inhabited, but gave him a glimpse at what the city would have been like over four hundred years earlier. Alfred saw the aqueducts in the distance, but he still could not imagine the ingenuity that it took for men to control water.

They entered the inner ring of the city and the noise and smell of the city became overwhelming. Alfred put his sleeve over his nose, and Cloud tossed his head. Wihtred rode close, and Merovich was right behind him, which kept Carloman from being able to talk to Alfred, much to the young lord's relief. The poor houses were the first ones they passed, and the streets were filled with fruit carts and filthy children, dogs and loose chickens. Every inch of space was crammed with something, from rain barrels to homeless families, every corner was full, so that it seemed to Alfred that if one more person entered, the walls themselves should fall outward. But the people moved out of the way of King Charles' caravan as the long line of horses and carts traveled to a more affluent section of the town, which was no less crowded, but far more orderly.

The well-dressed people stood aside and waved or cheered to them as they passed, and Alfred examined their clothing for hints as to their affiliations, but they all seemed local. It was the next ring of wall that they entered which led them to many people of different skin colors, different clothing styles, and he began to see banners of different houses, some of which he could recognize.

"Here, your highness!" People called from the street to invite them into inns, or to try smoked meats that were cooking outside of large houses. Alfred could see Leo's Wall, and the white castle that was the West Frankish embassy. He saw the basilicas, and atop the hill, he saw the Vatican as well. Charles ignored the hawkers and led them to a house with a large courtyard, where they rode their horses and dismounted as the gate behind them closed, keeping out the less important people.

"Your highness!" A fat man in expensive white robes stepped forward from a receiving line and extended his arms in welcome. "God has blessed your sacred journey! Please, come into the bathhouse and relieve your aching bones."

Alfred patted his tired horse on the neck, having no desire to go into a bathhouse with the group of men, but Merovich compelled him with a gentle push, and then Wihtred wrapped his arms around Alfred, and placed his body between his charge and the guard. Merovich did not care, as long as Alfred followed the king. The first room of the bathhouse was a large space with benches along the walls, where the men began to undress and place their clothes.

"My father did not take me here," Alfred said, his voice shaking with fear and embarrassment.

Wihtred patted his shoulder and, blushing, began to remove his dirty cassock. Alfred averted his eyes from the white limbs of the red-faced men, all weathered from the sun, but soft and round underneath their clothes. As they undressed, the men moved to the second chamber of the house and Alfred could see a large pool of steaming water beyond. They submerged, and there gave themselves more privacy. Alfred was horrified to undress in front of other people, but he did so, and hurried to the water to hide his own white softness.

He squatted down so that the water was above his shoulders, and he tried not to look at anyone, but he noticed that Carloman was pinching his nose and dunking his head under the water, and Alfred thought that it looked like he was also having fun. He tried it, and nearly panicked when his face was submerged, but after he stood up and realized that he was fine, he went back under again. The warm water dissolved the dirt from his skin and his hair, and he was almost sad to get out with the rest of the crowd, where they were given towels.

Alfred felt that the dirt of the long trip, and smells of horse flesh and leather, were gone from him. They dressed from fresh clothes in the trunks that had been carried in from their wagons, then walked back into the courtyard and into a house which was filled with large, plush pillows. Charles led them by stretching out on one of the pillows and groaning.

"This is a most welcome respite." Charles motioned for everyone else to lie down.

Alfred took a place near Wihtred, as far from Charles and Carloman as he could manage. They were given fruit and nuts and wine, and then left alone to slumber. Alfred found himself drowsy and leaned his head on Wihtred's shoulder while his heavy lids fell closed, but he did not sleep long before servants arrived with fresh clothe. As Alfred was taking off his Fankish tunic and finishing the ties on his Roman tunic, Wihtred was given a fresh bishop's cassock, much fancier than the one he had arrived in.

"Oh dear," Wihtred muttered, looking over the clothes. "This is far too expensive." But he put it on. A servant handed him a jeweled rosary, and he hesitated.

"You look good," Alfred encouraged.

"I would hate to appear prideful, my lord," Wihtred admitted.

"But you will most likely stand before the pope today," Alfred said.

"All the more reason." Wihtred blushed and stepped into felt shoes, then he and Alfred followed the king on the next leg of their journey. Alfred expected to go to the large white castle next to the basilica, but he realized that he was going to see the pope first.

"Mind your tongues," Charles instructed them as they made their way out of the courtyard on foot, to the steep flagstone steps that led them up a flowered hill. "What one pope has condemned; another supports. Entire vills have been confiscated and the new pope has gifted them to more fitting lords, and great men have fallen out of favor faster than the seasons can change."

Alfred looked at Carloman, who did not appear to be listening to his father's words. Charles did not notice his son's eyes wandering around the amazing courtyard view, or the king might have hit him hard enough to knock him off the stone staircase. They reached the top and entered another courtyard where servants met them and led them to a large waiting room full of dignitaries from several nations. Alfred investigated their clothing, the colors of different dyes, and of course, the emblems which they carried to denote their nationality.

Carloman fidgeted, but Alfred sat perfectly still while he examined the walls, amazed that they could be built so high; an ancient construction, made of ancient knowledge, like nothing that could be duplicated in the current world. The King of West Francia was important, even among an entire room of kings, and they did not remain in the waiting room long before Charles was called inside.

Alfred's group was beckoned through a massive doorway, upon which hung huge, thick wooden doors, inlaid with glittering jewels. Alfred stayed close to Wihtred, and they walked into the next room where Alfred was awed by the walls, decorated in gold-leaf and glittering jewels, sparkling with shining swirls of pattern. In the center of the room a small pool had been carved out of the floor, and boasted crystal clear water that had, at some point, rained in through the sky-light above them. Sunlight poured in through the round opening in the ceiling, and the resultant beam for a moment obscured their view of a golden throne, and the person seated upon the throne.

The pope was an old man, and his cassocks were more-pure white than Alfred had ever seen. He had a white beard and a kindly face underneath a very tall, conical-shaped hat. He was surrounded by old cardinals, dressed in their blood-red cassocks and conical hats that were tall, but only half the size of the pope's. Alfred thought that every man there must have been old enough to remember the previous century, and he had the impression that between them they must be almost as wise as the Lord himself. They spoke to the King Charles in Italian, and he responded in kind. Alfred understood the pleasantries being passed between them, but no one spoke to him directly, so he listened to the king make promises and to the pope giving blessings, and as a member of Charles' group, Alfred received a blessing from the pope as well, and he could feel the soul inside his body dance with joy because of it.

Their meeting was short, but Alfred felt that his life had changed in those few moments. As they turned to leave the glittering, sun-filled room, Alfred's soul felt lighter. He wanted to ask the Pope for a blessing for his father or ask someone if they had news of the Kingdom of Wessex. He had felt for a long time like he was in a limbo, but in that moment, he was at peace.

From the glittering room, through the sparkling waiting room, and back to the flowering courtyard, Alfred felt renewed as they followed the servants further. They were led to a portico where long, sheer linens hung as sunshades, and billowed in the breeze. Under the linen sunshades they were shown a large, open door, which brought them to the king's chambers. The room was very like the chambers Alfred had stayed in with his own father on his previous sojourn to Rome. The room was furnished with large, plush pillows, which Carloman fell into immediately. There was a long, oak table and cushions, beset with luscious fruits and wine, where Charles and his men took their places, and in the back of the tall-ceilinged, paved room, stood a glittering altar with a polished, silver crucifix hanging above it. Alfred was drawn to the altar like a moth to a flame, and he and Wihtred crossed themselves and knelt on the soft altar cloth where they clasped their hands together and thanked God for the blessing that they had received.

"What news?" Charles was asking the men after they had each poured a glass of wine. Alfred tried to ignore them, but their words buzzed at his ears.

"The raiders are in the East, as well as on the Island of the Britons. We have received letters from the King of Wessex and the King of East Anglia, begging for help."

Alfred did not open his eyes. His breath was caught in his throat.

"King Aethelbald has my daughter," Charles reminded them. Alfred's heart sank into his belly. He longed to hear 'King Aethelwulf'.

"We should have far more care for a possible attack on Paris." The Francian adviser spoke as wine poured into goblets.

"What can we do?" Charles asked.

"We can call that raider, Weland, and have him show our men how to defend against his kind."

"And how long before that dog turns on us, and bites the hand that feeds him?" Another adviser interrupted.

"Send word to the raider, Weland," Charles ordered. "Have him come to Paris and show our men how to defend us."

"We will need your royal seal, your highness. The other men will not believe that you wish to take the advice of such a beast."

Alfred closed his eyes tighter and clasped his hands together until they were numb. If Aethelbald was the king, where was his father? No one would tell him, and he begged God for a vision to make everything clear, or for his father to speak to him if he were no more than a ghost.

Alfred was at his prayers even longer than his bishop, and only left the altar when servants came to call them to the evening feast. Alfred allowed himself to be dressed, and his hair combed by the manservants, and then he followed the King of West Francia, and Carloman, and they went to a feast which hosted several other kings, princes, the emperor and his wife, Empress Teutberga, who looked to be the saddest person Alfred had ever seen. Courses were laid out before him and he picked at them, wine was poured into his beautiful glass goblet, and he sipped at it. Bored, Alfred got up to wander through the dining hall, and Merovich got up to follow him, but he did not stop Alfred.

He had seen so little of Carloman, he forgot to be wary, and then the Fransiscan prince was standing in front of him, drunk and staggering, being held up by two friends; one a Roman noble's boy, the other a Spanish prince. They were important enough for Alfred to know who they were, even if they were not wearing the crests of their houses on their sleeves.

"If it's not the heathen orphan," Carloman shouted to be heard over the music and the chattering of hundreds of party guests.

Alfred's blood boiled. He was already in turmoil over the unanswered questions about his father. He did not have the patience to deal with Carloman, especially a drunk Carloman. He turned around to go back the way he came.

Carloman grabbed him by the shoulder. "I am only joking with you," he insisted.

Alfred stopped and turned back to look at him, but only because Carloman was strong, even when he was wasted.

"I am only joking," Carloman said again, squeezing Alfred's shoulder to hold him in place. "You know if my brother ever killed our father, I would want to take revenge. Do you dream about killing your brother?"

"Carloman," the Spanish prince looked concerned. He glanced at Alfred who did not break his steady gaze into Carloman's eyes. "I do not think this is funny," the Spanish prince said.

"The only thing that is funny is a Brith calling himself a royal. His family rules at the pleasure of my father. He is little more than a peasant."

The Roman boy was shocked, and his hand flew to cover his mouth in an expression of surprise, and through his hand said, "you should not treat him so."

"So what?" Carloman glowered at his friends. "Brits are nearly heathens anyway."

With a force and rage he had never allowed himself to acknowledge, and with the flashes of all the times he had been mistreated by the Fransiscan princes, Alfred balled his hand into a fist and rocked Carloman's jaw with one perfectly aimed punch.


	15. Chapter 15

Excitement filled the air like a tangible force. Guthrum was buzzing from it, as well as from the honey mead that was flowing freely amid music and laughter. Every single Norse person who lived on the island was there, dancing through the wooden lodge that was called the Hall of Northumbria.

Ragnar had begun construction on a stone mead hall, but they had to halt the digging of the foundations when the ground froze. It was almost spring again, and the bonfires that roared at either end of the open doors of the hall were all the warmth they needed. The interior of the hall was cool, but consistent, and there was no fear of a drunken person falling into a small hearth fire, which would normally be set throughout the room. Candles were the only light, and the shadows danced with the music.

Halfdene fell against his cousin, laughing, and they hugged one another. Guthrum knew that his face was shining, and he could not help but smile. Halfdene was beaming as well. It was almost time. Ragnar stood up from his chair in the center of the hall and the men closest to him prepared the ceremony. The music played faster, more raucous, forcing the dancers to drip in sweat while they kept time.

No Saxon slaves or peasants were allowed in the hall that night. Not even the Saxon women who had born children for their Norse masters, not even if those masters had accepted them as wives. This was a place and time for only the purest of Northerners. Tonight was sacred.

The music stopped, the dancers fell to the ground and those carrying pitchers of mead started pouring the golden liquid in the mouths of their exhausted friends. The high-pitched laughter of the women rang through the hall, and the men's booming voices echoed to the ceiling rafters. They started to settle, and the hall became quiet in contrast to the past ten hours. The people watched as Hagar and Hroskell lit a small fire at Ragnar's feet, throwing shadows on the face of the cloaked chief.

Lifting his arms over his head, Ragnar reached up toward the darkened roof beams of the hall. The others followed his lead drunkenly, but seriously. They held the position in complete silence, but for Rayna, who lost her balance and fell off her chair.

"Tonight." Ragnar's voice rumbled through the hall and they all lowered their arms. "We speak to you, Aasir, and our mighty father, Odin."

Hagar placed two bands of twisted metal into Ragnar's outstretched hand. Ragnar took the bands and held them over the fire, where a trickle of smoke rose up to cleanse them. Hroskell placed some green leaves on the fire and the smoke billowed.

"To the god, Tyr, I dedicate these rings." Ragnar spoke in his deepest voice, which sounded haunting in the eerie quiet of the crowded hall.

Guthrum could feel the heartbeats of the people all around him. He was very aware of their breath, quick and ragged, their pulses heightened from the dance and their heads dizzy from the mead. He imagined that all their hearts were beating in the same time. He was one with them and they with him.

A single drumbeat began, slowly. Guthrum and Halfdene stood up, as if commanded by the drum. They all knew what it meant. The two boys walked through the splayed and twisted limbs of the people littering the floor, some too dizzy to get up, some sitting. The smokey fire obscured Ragnar's face, and now he was just the shape of a wide-sleeved cloak in the darkness. Guthrum easily forgot that the man behind the smoke was his father, and he imagined the god Tyr himself had taken his father's form.

"Your honor is entwined with your destiny," Ragnar grumbled in his otherworldly voice. Everyone in the room believed that Tyr was there, in their midst, standing behind the billowing smoke of the little fire. Hroskell fed it more green leaves.

"Bring the bull." Ragnar-who-was-Tyr turned his head toward the open door. They could feel the change in the energy of the air as a stamping, snorting bull was led in. At first it was just a massive silhouette against the raging bonfire just outside the door, then it walked into the human-smelling place and the candlelight caught the wide white edges of its eyes as it sensed something amiss. The bull lowed, and stopped halfway through the door, its handler having to urge it on to the smokey fire. The bull stood between the fire and the audience, so that the massive shape of the beast was shown in its full glory. The bull was not a smart animal, but not without cunning. Its power was in its brute strength, and many of the tribe found it fitting that Guthrum would be baptized in the blood of the bull.

Ragnar-who-was-Tyr stepped over the smokey, smoldering hearth, so that the audience saw him walk through a curtain of smoke. If he was not fully transformed before, the sacred fire would have finished the metamorphosis. The bull lowed and the crowd oohed. Severity was the overwhelming feeling of the air inside the hall. Guthrum's heart was beating with the single drum, which never lost time.

The bull did not see the blade, and the crowd only saw a flash of it in the second before a tide of crimson spewed forth from the bull's neck. The animal let out a strangled squeak, then staggered. The crowd aahed. The great beast faltered, going down on its front knees. It tried to stand up again, but the floor was now covered in its blood, and its back half dropped with a thud. In a last attempt to gore its killer, the bull rolled its head aimlessly, then the mighty head dropped, and the crowd cheered.

Hroskell put a bowl under the bull and filled it with the last of the squirting blood, then the deluge turned dark, and dribbled out of the beast's neck. Ragnar-who-was-Tyr took the bowl. Hagar handed him a bundle of reeds and he dipped them into the blood, soaking it up, then flicking it on Guthrum's face and body.

The first flick of the warm liquid made Guthrum flinch, even though he was expecting it. He closed his eyes and let his father cover his face in the sanguine fluid. When he felt his arms being covered, he opened his eyes, but the smoke was so dense that he could not even see the wall behind his father, nor any of his father's features. Hands were darting out of the thick murk, retrieving the bowl and the reeds, supplying Tyr with the already blessed arm ring.

"Guthrum, son of Ragnar," Tyr boomed through Ragnar's mouth. "You have proven your manhood, and now your duty begins. Do you accept your fate?"

Guthrum's chin shivered, but his voice was strong. "I accept my fate. I will defend my honor."

An expected "oooooh" ran through the assemblage.

"Guthrum, son of Ragnar, step forward."

Guthrum walked behind the fire, feeling extremely sober. He was behind the wall of smoke, and Tyr followed, with assistants in tow. Guthrum held his right arm out to the god, and the warm band of silver twisted around a rod of gold, bearing the emblam of a bull, was gently placed around his bicep. The ring was open on one end, and Hagar stepped forward with a heavy clamp and closed it tight around the muscle. There would be need for adjustments as the boy's arm grew, but it would always be snug.

Guthrum stared at the beautiful, expensive piece of jewelry. If he ever shamed his father, he would have to return the ring. If he ever dishonored himself, he would not longer be entitled to wear it. It was a symbol of his status, and a physical bond with his clan. The ring was the symbol of the oath that he was taking as a Norseman, to honor the gods and the old ways. Guthrum touched the band. He could feel the magic running through it. He stepped back out of the wall of smoke, around the slumped figure of the dead bull, and looked at his cousin.

Tyr walked through the thick curtain of smoke again and the entire hall was silent. Tyr turned his hooded head toward the door, and his booming voice cut through the silence. "Bring the boar!"

The pig screamed in protest as soon as it was led into the hall, where the fresh iron smell of the bull's blood filled the air. The boar struggled, and four men dragged it to the smokey hearth. It was smaller than the hump of bull in front of them, but the audience could still see the boar because it leapt into the air, throwing its tusks as it tried to toss its head. They held it by the ears and Tyr killed it quickly, lest the panic of the animal ruin the meat. A new gush of blood soaked the stained rushes on the floor, and the squealing of the boar faded to a pathetic cry, and the animal slumped.

"Halfdene, son of Hagar," Tyr called out.

Guthrum watched his cousin walk, but mostly stagger, around the dead animals and around the smokey hearth. Tyr and the attendants followed him behind the wall of smoke. The hall could hear Tyr ask him; "you are now a man. Do you accept your fate?"

Halfdene was silent for a long moment, and Guthrum wondered why he was not answering a god's direct question. He was on the verge of concern when he heard his cousin's slurring words. "I accept it. I will defend my fate. My honor." He burped. "I accept me fate, I honor my …"

"Halfdene, son of Hagar, step forward."

The crowd missed their chance to "oooooh", but Halfdene came back around the curtain of smoke covered in boar's blood and sporting an arm ring, which was bronze twisted around a band of silver, bearing the emblem of the boar. For Halfdene was not the largest fighter, nor the strongest, but he was smart, inquisitive, and good at planning. Halfdene had proven his manhood through his hunting skills. Guthrum's test had been different.

The two newly titled men turned to the crowd and the people cheered. The music started again, and everyone grabbed their cups. The less affluent drank from wooden cups, but some had golden chalices or traditional horns. You knew a serious drinker by his use of the traditional horn, a cup that could not easily be set down, so the user was compelled to hold it all night, and in Norse tradition, a cup being held was a cup being filled.

Meat was carved out of the sacrificial animals, and Guthrum was given the bull's liver, Halfdene the boar's heart, and they bit into the uncooked parts and the crowd cheered while they ate. Everyone stopped them to admire their armbands, to show off their own armbands, and to talk about their own ceremonies. The god Tyr left Ragnar's body, and the chief took his seat again, accepting a golden chalice of honey mead. They toasted to Guthrum and Halfdene, who laughed and danced and drank.

Guthrum slept on top of a table that night, a sleeping place of high honor, while most of the people were on the floor. Rayna fell asleep sitting up in a chair, her head lolled back and her mouth wide open in a snore that rattled the walls. Guthrum felt sober again, even though his head was spinning at the top of the rafters along with the black swill from their fires.

Being the son of a chief, his manhood could not have been proven through successful hunting, battle, or archery, even gambling as was often seen as acceptable for common men. No, that would not do to prove him capable of leading this amazing tribe of warriors who had crossed the whale's road and taken what they desired. Ragnar's vision of conquest had been realized, and the dream could not die with the old man, for surely, he would fall in battle some day, Guthrum knew.

On the day of the first snow of his fourteenth winter, Guthrum was sent with a sword, an ax, and the clothes on his back, into the wilderness. He had three days before the hunt would begin. The few Norsewomen who lived in the hall were also warriors, but this ritual was only for men. Guthrum started through the light snow at a steady pace, straight into the woods so that they could not see which way he was going to take. They would have hounds, so he went first to the stream, and broke through the thin layer of ice, running downstream, and then doubling back, breaking the ice in both directions until he came to a cave where he crawled inside to find the provisions that he had stored there three days earlier.

Taking his pack, Guthrum changed his leggings and boots and, even though his toes were frozen, at least he was dry. He walked deeper into the cave and triggered a fall of rocks that he had rigged there, effectively cutting off the light at the end of the tunnel. He and Halfdene had worked on the rocks for months, and he took his time heaving the heavy stones that they had lined against the wall, placing them against the back of the rockslide. He could not see his work, but he grinned at it before he turned to walk down the pitch-black tunnel. He knew where he was going. He had some dried meat in his pocket, and he chewed while he walked. He was not able to hide food in the tunnel, as that would have attracted animals, so he had to come out and he had to hunt. He came to the section of the tunnel where he had to take off his pack and crawl through the tight pass. He tied a rope to the pack and dragged it behind him.

He reached a fork in the tunnels, and he dragged his wet boots down the wrong tunnel, dropping them into a cavern, then he went back and took the right tunnel, sweating from being underground for so long. At last he felt the sweet blast of cool air and saw some light, like a pinprick in the distance.

He picked up the bow and arrows that he had placed at the end of the tunnel, pulled his pack onto his back, and took off at a run. His evasion plans had cut into the day, and he needed to make the cabin before it got too dark. He would not be able to start hunting until dawn because he had to get to a fire now.

The others would know about the cabin, but there were many shelters he could have chosen. The most obvious would be to rob one of the Saxon peasants, but they might think him too clever for that. They probably expected him to stay in the woods. He would be persued by ten men, and they all might be expecting something different. As he ran, breathing heavily and watching the puffs of air rising white around his face, Guthrum thought about the men, and remembered as much as he could about their own manhood ceremonies, though most of them had not endured this extreme trial.

He found the cabin in the pitch of midnight. Shivering and barely able to hold a flint, Guthrum lit the waiting hearth, placing some split logs over the soft peat. The result was warm and smokey, and Guthrum sat crouched over it until he could feel his blood moving again. It was a short night, as the morning required a hunt for provisions. He pierced a deer with his arrow in the red hours of the morning, but he had to track it for miles, field dress it, and take what he could back to the cabin. By then the sun was past its zenith.

It was to be his last night in the cabin. As he cured and cooked his meat, Guthrum ate his fill. He made the fire warm and he slept comfortably that night, and in the morning, he set off. The temperature dropped around midday and Guthrum prayed for snow. They would find his trail at the cabin and deduce that he had traveled East, so after half a day's steady jog, Guthrum turned in a wide circle, skirting south of the great hall. Once facing south, he jogged steadily, slowing when he was tired, eating his cooked meat as he walked, then jogging again, through the night. He did not stop, and before dawn, his prayers were answered and it started to snow, covering his tracks.

He could not leave a trace now, the little campsite he set up at dawn was blanketed by snow. Guthrum and his tiny fire sat under an impromptu shelter, and he watched the snow pile up as he drifted to sleep. When he woke again, he had lost track of time. The sun was high, but what day was it? Were they out yet searching? Did he have a few more hours? He dismantled his shelter and scattered the materials, using his axe to bury the scorched logs of his campfire. It was still snowing, which slowed his progress, but it would slow theirs, too.

He was feeling clever by the following day. The key was distance, so he kept moving, but when he saw a rabbit bounding through the snow, he crouched down and drew his bow. There was no way to know how long Ragnar had been right behind him, but in that moment the old chief took his chance, and hit Guthrum in the side of the head with a branch, which broke against him, scared the rabbit, and knocked him to his side.

His father's fist fell on his eye and after that there was only the pain of the beating. Worse, when it was over, he had been stripped of his meat, his bow, his pack. He had only the axe and sword that he had started with, and extremely pained ribs. He sat up slowly, placing snow against his face. How could they have found him so fast? He groaned as he got up, dripping blood on the churned snow. He had not even had a chance to fight back. Guthrum was angry with himself.

He started to move and chose southwest as his new direction. He stumbled through a peasant's farm, holding his ribs and groaning while he bled from his face. Through his swollen eyes, he saw the Saxon family run out of their house and to the woods on the opposite side of the farm. He struggled into their waudle and daub home and collapsed by the fire. There was little food or things of worth in the house, but he had a fire, and some shelter. He reached out the door for handfuls of snow to put on his face, and soon he could see again.

Eating a turnip, he went back into the world the following morning and started north, reasoning that this way he would see them coming at him. He still had his axe and his sword, and his wits and his brute strength. He built a shelter but sat with no fire, looking out at the world, trying to see the predators' camps. He fell asleep, shivering, and woke because his shelter was being pulled back.

"Got him!" Hroskell's triumphant voice called out.

"Told you he wouldn't go far from home," Hagar chimed in.

Guthrum tried to evade them, he ducked Hroskell's grip, but Hagar grabbed him, holding him still while Hroskell pummeled his abdomen. They stopped when Guthrum puked blood, then they took his axe and sword and ran, laughing, in the direction of the hall. If they met up with anymore of the hunters, they would give away his location. He had to move.

There were seven more out there, hunkering down in cold camps, listening for him to stagger near them. His stomach gnawed at him from the inside and his bruises gnawed at him from the outside. He stumbled, falling and tumbling down a gentle slope, rolling in snow, and stopping just at the edge of a frozen stream. He crawled out onto the ice, letting the cold numb his bruised ribs. He told himself to get up. He had to get up. He had to move. Coming back north was a mistake. He should follow the river south and keep going south. Forever. He was angry with the men who had raised him, and then shown him no mercy. He was in the worst pain of his life, cold, and hungry.

This is the bottom, he hoped. He hoped it did not go any lower. Then he saw the shape of a man coming toward him. Guthrum rolled to his back as the other form reached the ice. The man fell on him, but Guthrum straightened his arm, holding his eating knife, and plunging it deep into the assailant's throat. Red blood followed by black blood gushed down his arm and splattered over his beaten face. The surprised face of Jorund was visible under the hood of his cloak as he fell to the ice next to Guthrum.

"Jorund!" Guthrum gasped, pulling the knife out and causing a momentary fountain of crimson, but then Jorund's body was still, inside and out. Tears filled Guthrum's eyes and froze there. He had been reduced to an animal, and he had killed a friend. Guthrum wiped his face and dug through Jorund's pockets, pulling out food and weapons, then he got his feet under himself on the slippery ice and he scurried south.

No one found Guthrum for the rest of the winter, and when he marched back into the camp, having bested the elements against extreme odds, no one questioned Guthrum's skills. And no one mentioned Jorund.


	16. Chapter 16

King Aethelbald had ignored the letters for months, but the more recent documents had been brought to Theobald's attention and Theobald was finally able to compel his cousin to listen to what his father had written. Aethelbald did not want to listen. He did not want to believe that his father's health was failing, but at the age of sixty-three, the old King of Kent had outlived almost his entire generation.

"I have not seen him since he left for Rome," Aethelbald reflected as he rode from Wessex Proper to Kent. "Not since my mother was alive."

"God rest her soul," Theobald said.

"Yes." Aethelbald crossed himself. "If little Judith's last letter is true, there may not be much left of him when we get there."

"Aye, he is a very old man," Theobald said. "He waited late in life to marry and have children."

Aethelbald glared at his cousin. "Let us not go over that again."

"You need a line of succession, your highness," Theobald reminded him. "You put too much responsibility on your brothers."

Aethelbald looked to the horizon where he could see the church at Canterbury, which, like the wall around Lundene, was a Roman-built structure, made with a building technology that the Saxons were never able to duplicate. Aethelbald's trumpeter moved to the front of the ranks and called out with three blats of his horn, and they could hear the horns blowing from the wall to answer them. Three blats, recognizing that the king had arrived.

The entire household spilled out to greet him, falling over one another to bless him, to beg his protection, to swear their allegiance. "Your highness! Welcome!" called the Lord of Canterbury. "My lady is within."

"Your lady?" Aethelbald dismounted and gave his horse over to a stable hand. "Not her highness?"

"Good King Aethelbald, Kent mourns the death of your father, three days past."

Aethelbald was stung. He had lost any chance he might have had to atone for his sins. He stopped in mid-stride. "He is gone?"

"I am so sorry, my king."

Theobald laid a hand on Aethelbald's shoulder and they walked together into the Hall of Canterbury, which was dwarfed by the church that sat across the road from it. Judith was waiting with the lady of the house and several household servants. She glittered in a gold dress, woven with intricate designs. Colorful jewels sparkled all around her, making her glow in the light of the hearth fires, but her ornaments paled next to her natural beauty. Aethelbald saw that her blue eyes were deeper and more shining than any sapphire in her collection, and the gold of her hair shamed the gold weave of her dress.

"Your highness." Judith stepped forward and lowered herself into a curtsy that had her arms and face nearly touching the floor. "God is merciful," she said, looking down. "He be praised that you have graced the Hall of Canterbury with your presence."

"My lady," Aethelbald extended a hand to help her up.

The rumors of Judith's excessive beauty had reached him wherever on the island he happened to ride. He was sure that they were true, otherwise his father would not have married her and tried to give her so much power. But, after all the rumors he had heard, the reality of her still managed to take his breath away. She placed her tiny, delicate fingers in his hand and straightened from her curtsy.

"I am sorry for your loss, your highness," Judith said, her eyes shining with tears. "God has taken his eternal soul. He is buried with his first wife, behind the church. I would be pleased to show you his crypt."

Aethelbald knew where his mother was buried, but he let Judith walk him to the door.

"We buried him yesterday, your highness," she said. "I would have waited if I had known that you were coming."

"Of course," Aethelbald muttered.

He was entranced by her, following her without realizing the presence of all the people around him. When she stopped walking, he forced himself to look away from her face, and found that they were standing at the base of a large, rounded hill.

Judith sobbed and covered her mouth. "He is gone," she shook her head. "God help us all."

"Was he kind to you?" Aethelbald did not know why he had asked. He did not expect her to reply.

"His only cruelty was in leaving me," she whispered, trembling.

She was even more glorious in the sunlight than she had been when lit by hearth fires. The red and orange glow of the sun reflected in her golden hair, making it shine red. Her rubies and diamonds caught the sunlight and flashed like Earth-bound stars, which were still not as bright as her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears.

"My lady," Aethelbald hesitated. "What is your dearest wish?"

She was surprised by the question. "My only wish, dear king, is that I see my father again in my lifetime."

"You would rather go home to him as a widow than to stay here?" Aethelbald asked.

She was silent, only a blink in answer to his question.

"Will your father be pleased to see you?" he asked. "After all, you are a woman now, and not the child who left him."

"I am still innocent," she said. "My father would be pleased to marry me again."

"You are … a maiden?"

She blushed and turned her face to the ground.

"My lady," Aethelbald cleared his throat. "If your wish is to be returned to the continent, then that is one that I can easily grant you."

Judith looked up at him and smiled, and when she did, he was fully bewitched. Aethelbald left her to the company of her women while he looked for the Lord of Canterbury. "Is it true that she is a virgin?" Aethelbald asked him.

"It is true that the marriage had not been consummated," the lord answered, lowering his tone so that they would not be overheard. "If ever she has been touched, it was not by the late king."

"If ever?"

"There was a handsome young soldier who paid her a great deal of attention about a year ago. He is gone now."

Aethelbald furrowed his brow. "Was it because of my father's age? Was he unable …"

"No." The lord shook his head. "The king was able with several women over the years, but Judith has not yet come of age. He swore that, until she is a woman, he would not …"

Aethelbald put a hand on the man's shoulder to silence him, he had heard everything he needed to know. When Judith returned to the hall, she was giddy with excitement. She instructed her servants to be ready the moment Aethelbald was prepared to take them to a ship. She smiled through the evening meal and drank wine with her stepson. She grew dizzy from the drink and laid her head in the straw near the hearth fire, and her mouth fell into the shape of a tiny red O as she slumbered.

Aethelbald slept near her that night, watching the angelic look on her round-cheeked face, the blissful rise and fall of her chest as she slept. He looked at her soft lips, and wondered about the handsome soldier, who had no doubt given his life for his show of affection. He turned over, trying to force himself to sleep. The following day came too early for his liking, and he stayed down for several hours after the animals were stirring. The servants crept around the house until he got up, then the rest of the household, who were already awake, also began their day. Judith sat up, too, and straw stuck in the braids at the back of her head.

"Good morning, your highness," she said, as she shook a braid loose of its weaving.

He gazed at her, blinking in amazement as he woke up to her bright face. He cleared his throat and tried to find his voice. "We will go north today, my lady. I will find you the first ship to your father's kingdom."

Judith jumped up, and golden waves of hair flew free about her shoulders. "Thank you! God bless you, your highness! I have only one question."

"Yes, my lady?"

"My husband has gifted me with more dresses and jewels than any girl needs, so I must ask you, what do I take and what do I leave behind? This one." She touched a necklace at her throat. "Is very dear, a gift from my husband, made with a pearl that he pulled from the sea with his own hands to give to me."

"You may keep the necklace, and everything else that you desire to keep, no matter how many horses or ships it takes to carry it all."

Judith smiled, and her face lit the room. "Thank you, your highness."

He nodded to dismiss her, and she backed away from him, tripping slightly on her hem. She giggled before she turned away and let her ladies go about placing her outerwear over the nightdress. She packed everything, and the house looked very empty when they began their journey northward with a laden caravan of horses.

"My father will thank you for my kind treatment," Judith said when the horses were plodding at a steady gait.

Aethelbald shook his head. "It is nothing."

She looked ahead of them, her eyes glittering with the excitement of a new adventure, a trip home. That night, they stopped to camp on the roadside, and the royals sat down together at the main fire. Judith smiled at Aethelbald, and he could feel himself blushing.

"My lady." Aethelbald scooted closer to her.

The bishop who watched over her moved closer to them both, and the female servants also crowded in, though one had snuck off with one of Aethelbald's soldiers.

"I regret that I did not meet you sooner," Aethelbald said, ignoring the people around them. "For I think that things between us now are strange. I hope that your impressions of Wessex are not all bad."

"No," she shook her head. "I have wonderful memories of my marriage, as I have wonderful memories of my parents and family, and my home. I long to see them again."

"Have some wine," he offered.

She took the bladder from his hand and sipped it.

"You have lovely hair," he said, and reached out to touch her.

Her eyes wide with surprise, Judith shied away from his hand.

"Do not be afraid," he chuckled.

"The princess is tired," Bishop Gregory suggested. "She must get some rest before we journey tomorrow."

"Yes," Aethelbald agreed. "We all need a good night of rest."

He looked at her, hungrily, and she was unnerved by him. She scooted closer to Gregory, but with a wave of Aethelbald's hand, two soldiers descended upon the bishop and pulled him away.

Gregory shouted and blustered, and he could hear Judith calling for him, but the soldiers marched him down the road, and kept him there. Judith screamed for a long time, then there was silence. Gregory fought with the soldiers, but he could not free himself of their grip. He fought them until he was too tired to move, then he sat down next to a tree and watched the sun rise, wondering if God or King Charles would ever forgive him.

Aethelbald had laid next to her while she sobbed through the night, and in the morning, he got up to find his cousin.

"I did not expect it," Aethelbald told Theobald. "She was a true maiden. The marriage was never finalized."

"If YOU married her," Theobald rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Then the Carolingian heir born on the island would be yours."

Aethelbald was struck by the thought. "She may be with child already," he hoped.

They looked over at her, sitting on the ground with her servants tending her. She glared at them, a flash of blue steel before she looked away. Her child would have spirit, Aethelbald thought, as well as the blood of Charlemagne. The people of the island would quake at the sight of Aethelbald's grown son.

"That is what we shall do," he decided.

When Aethelbald commanded everyone onto their horses, Judith was eager to leave. She winced as she took her saddle, but bravely accepted the reins from her servant and clucked to her horse. They started moving northward, where Bishop Gregory was still being held. He joined the party, but was too ashamed to speak, knowing that he had failed her, and she was too ashamed to look at him, knowing that she was no longer pure.

Aethelbald led the party down the main forest path but detoured them into a small town where Judith looked forward to the prospect of warming herself near a fire, even though she was more than eager to get on a ship heading east.

"Here," Aethelbald called.

The caravan stopped in front of a small chapel, and Bishop Gregory parked his horse in between Judith and the Saxon king. They watched as Aethelbald dismounted and walked inside. The entire entourage and battalion waited in silence until he returned, this time with a priest in tow.

Judith was watching the young king, and did not notice Theobald ride up beside her, on the other side than the bishop. She screamed with surprise when Theobald pulled her off her horse. She punched at his arms, but she could not fight the strength of him.

"Marry us, priest." Aethelbald announced, taking the proffered Judith from his cousin's saddle.

"Her father must have his say!" Gregory shouted. "I object in the name of GOD!" The wiry little bishop crawled off his horse and rushed toward the priest.

"Remove him." Aethelbald waved his hand at Gregory.

The soldiers pulled him back, and Theobald directed them down the road, but the bishop shouted, spit flying from his lips as he fought against the guards, his face red with the exertion. "You will be damned to Hell for all eternity! The King of West Francia will come down on your country like a hammer on a nail! You will rue the day that you defied a king! You are but a pretender child! I curse you to Hell!" No matter how far they marched him, his railing was heard.

The priest was nervous. He was afraid to defy a bishop, and to go against God, but he was also afraid of the king, and all his soldiers and their swords. Though he would never forgive himself for doing it, he started uttering the prayers.

"No!" Judith cried, and shook her head. "Please do not marry me to him!"

Aethelbald glared at her and she silenced. She sobbed through the ceremony, and when the priest tried to take her hand to bind it to Aethelbald's, she pulled her hand away, almost sitting on the ground as she fought to keep it from them. But Aethelbald grabbed wrist and held her. She cried and looked through the audience of soldiers and the small pocket of female servants, but no one made a move to save her. She could hear Gregory shouting, damning them all to Hell and eternal fire, and Judith cried because she was afraid of Hell.

Their hands were bound, despite her best efforts, and the priest blessed the union. "May you have many sons," he added.

Judith glared at the priest as he unraveled her right hand from her new husband's, and as soon as she was free, she leapt forward and raked her fingernails down the priest's forehead, all the way to his chin. The man's face burst forth with blood and he screamed, throwing his hands over his wounds. The guards rushed forward and pulled Judith away from the king, in case her rage was going to continue. Judith took several deep, seething breaths as she watched Aethelbald, who stared at her in disbelief for a long moment before he started laughing.

"Such manners for a continental princess," Aethelbald mused. "Our sons will be fierce."

She tried to shake the arms of the guards. The thought of bearing Aethelbald's child infuriated and sickened her.

"You can decide now," he told her, "how you would like your future treatment to be. You are my wife in the eyes of God, and I am the King of Wessex, Jute, and Kent. I may imprison you, if that is what it takes, or you may come with me willingly."

She sobbed, breaking down.

"Let go of her," Aethelbald commanded his soldiers.

They let her slip down to the soft grass, her legs folding underneath her.

"Come with me now," he insisted.

She looked up at him, and he held out a hand to help her. She shook, inside and out. She was sick to her stomach as she placed her trembling fingers in his palm. He helped her up and she used all her willpower to force her legs to work. They went inside the chapel and Aethelbald let her sit down near the fire.

"Bring vellum and ink," he said to the priest, who was fervently trying to doctor the wounds on his face. "Write to your father," Aethelbald said to her. "Tell him of my father's death and of our marriage."

She sobbed as she took the quill, her hand shaking. Aethelbald could not read his own language, and he did not know what she wrote in Franconian, but he called the priest over.

"Dearest Father, God bless you," the priest read over the customary salutation. "My husband has died, and his son has married me. I am most grieved …"

Aethelbald took the page from the priest and used his knife to slice it in half. "Try it again," he commanded. "And make yourself sound happy to be rid of an old man."

Judith cried, and tears fell on the words as she scrawled another message.


	17. Chapter 17

Alfred had never hit anyone before, and it was only luck that kept him from missing his mark, but Carloman almost fell over.

The Spanish prince rushed forward and pulled Carloman back, but he seemed too surprised to attempt a retaliation. He had been tormenting Alfred without consequence for years, and now seemed dumbfounded as his cheek reddened. Alfred mirrored his expression of disbelief, then Carloman shook the Spaniard's hands from him and turned to disappear into the crowd.

A few people had noticed and were staring, but Alfred was left standing there alone but for Wihtred, who had not had time to do or say anything. He waited for Charles' guards to seize him, or for Vatican guards to question him. He stood in one place, waiting, but the minstrels still played, and important people continued their murmured conversations. Jewels continued to sparkle, and wine continued to flow. Alfred had punched his tormentor, and nothing happened.

Alfred believed that his fervent prayer was working, as he remained un-murdered throughout the months that they were in Rome and was in his saddle riding north with the rest of Charles' group when the visit concluded. He lived to see their return to Paris, too, and a return to school. Alfred rode his horse behind the princes, who looked taller, and older than they had when he had left. He walked through the stooped door of the church and thought it dingy and pathetic compared to the soaring ceilings and impressive buildings of Rome. He noted that Master Pepin and Bishop Corbus were still there, but he did not see Wisagard. He wanted to ask about her, but there was no one in the building to whom he could speak.

The princes were happy to have their younger brother in tow and wrapped their arms around him and asked him questions about Rome. Alfred sat down alone and accepted a tablet from one of the altar boys. He sighed deeply and tried to pay attention to the first lesson.

"Did you hear of the Emperor while you were there?" Young Charles asked Carloman.

"I saw him."

"He intends to divorce his wife." Another noble boy broke into their conversation.

"She was there as well."

The boys were amazed at this revelation, but Alfred was confused. He looked to Wihtred, but he knew they could not talk to each other until the day's lessons ended and they were finally on their horses, heading back to the large bridge that took them over the Seine and to the great hall. Still Alfred kept his mouth closed until they made their way up the stone staircase and to the private chamber, outside of which Merovich took a seat in the hallway.

"I did not see Wisagard," Alfred mumbled under his breath as he knelt at the altar.

"No." Wihtred knelt beside him and crossed himself.

"Lord Alfred." A manservant stepped into their chamber. "Ready yourself to join the king at his table this evening."

Alfred glanced over his shoulder, but otherwise he did not acknowledge the servant, who ducked back out of the room and went on his way.

"I hate Bishop Corbus," Alfred said. He did not voice his desire to shove a bone stylus up the bishop's giant nostrils, as he had already knelt and crossed himself.

"Now, my lord," Wihtred tisked. "That is a strong word."

"Well, he hates me. And where did Wisagard go? She was my only friend."

"She was a girl. Girls are not your friends."

"She was kind. Everyone else is terrible."

Wihtred could not argue.

"What is divorce?"

"Divorce." Wihtred spoke as if the word left a bad taste in his mouth. "It is an unholy ritual in which a man puts his wife away in a convent."

"And," Alfred prodded. "Is that what Emperor Lothair wishes to do to Empress Teutberga?"

"It would have been done already," Wihtred told him. "If Pope Benedict, God rest his soul, had not been called home by the Lord."

"Will Pope Nicholas not grant the divorce?"

"Nicholas does not believe the divorce to be right and has refused the emperor's request. Lothair is angry, and I have heard words that he wishes to march on Rome." Wihtred lowered his voice. This was no idle gossip that he was repeating. "He will ask King Charles for men and supplies to wage his war."

"But Charles is God-fearing," Alfred whispered. "We have already been to Rome to swear our allegiance to Nicholas."

"Aye, I think that we are very lucky in our host at this time. Charles will not commit to a battle against Rome, though the combined forces of the Carolingians would be unstoppable."

"Perhaps that is why God had their father break up the empire."

Wihtred smiled. "You are a bright boy," he said. "You see many things."

"Why does the king want me in his court today?" Alfred asked.

"That, I do not know."

Wihtred led Alfred through their prayers, and then they dressed for dinner. Merovich stood waiting in the hall as Alfred took the lead of the procession and listened to his own small footsteps echo in front of him and down the stone staircase. They crossed the courtyard and entered the main room of the hall, where they were announced.

"Lord Alfred of Wessex, and Bishop Wihtred of Canterbury!"

Merovich slunk along the wall, watching Alfred like a beast hunting its prey. The hall was arrayed in a pageantry of silken clothes dyed in exquisite colors. Yellow was a favorite color that year, and the ladies of the court were wearing yellow onyx and autumn flowers, one girl had a wreath of golden leaves in her hair, which was sure to crumble and fall away by the time court was concluded.

The announcer shouted out over the myriad of conversation within the hall, "CHARLES, KING OF WEST FRANCIA, BURGUNDY, AND SAXONY."

Alfred stood next to his appointed chair and watched as Charles' entourage filled every remaining space in the room. The king entered, and only after he lowered his royal bottom, did the rest of the important men, including Alfred, take their seats. Wihtred and Merovich stood behind Alfred, along with the other servants, who took their places against the wall.

"Our first order of business today is to see the councilman," King Charles informed the room.

"Lord Horacious!" The announcer shouted over the noise of the people. "Councilman of Constantinople."

"Come forth," commanded Charles.

A thin man in pricey garb stepped forward. He was gaunt, with sunken cheeks and large eyes, like a man starving, but he was draped in gold and exotic silks, which were dyed in bright colors.

"Your highness," The councilman bowed in front of Charles. "God bless you, that you are willing to see me. I am a man most grieved, and I seek your gracious hospitality as I have been excommunicated."

"And what makes you think that I should want you here?" Charles sneered.

"Your highness, I am no wicked man, God knows! I did what I did for the sake of your own nephew's happiness, His Imperial Highness! And to ensure peace in the empire. The council says that I poisoned them to make an unwise decision, but the divorce of Teutberga is the only answer, your highness. You know your own nephew's mind."

"And Lothair should get everything that he wants because he paid you?" King Charles sniffed with disgust. "Why do you not go to him? Does he not owe you a favor?"

"Your highness, the emperor is a cruel man, God knows. I went to him and begged shelter, but because the pope over-turned the council's ruling and had us all excommunicated, I am of no more use to him. I beg you, highness, as a Christian, have mercy on me."

"Tell me what you saw while you were with my nephew," Charles commanded. "Does he indeed gather men to march on Rome?"

"He does, your highness," professed the shamed councilman.

"And what do you think of his chances? Compared to the defenses in our holy city?"

"Nicholas makes no friends in Byzantium either, your highness," the councilman said. "He supports Ignatius, and the lords are calling for Photius. It is possible that Rome might be crushed from two sides."

"God forbid." Charles crossed himself, and everyone in the hall followed his lead. "For the information that you have brought to me I will give you lodging for one night, and one horse for the morrow, but you will not have sanctuary in my great hall. You may find a monastery here in West Francia that will have you, but a man without land nor any wealth has little to offer the monks. Even now, you have come to my court in borrowed clothes. You are no more than a beggar. That is the gift my nephew gives to reward your loyalty."

The king waved him away. The councilman tried to plead, but the guards compelled him to leave.

"Next," Charles said to the announcer.

The room was buzzing, and the men around Alfred were whispering to one another. Alfred watched the sorry old man shuffle out of the court, and he uttered a silent prayer that God would have mercy on him, and to give the old man peace within his lifetime. He knew what it was to be in exile.

"The royal envoy from the Saxon Island, at the behest of the King of Wessex; the Archbishop of Canterbury." The announcer had to shout to be heard.

Alfred sat up straight, and his eyes snapped to the door where a short, bald cleric entered, wearing homespun garb and a silken rope around his waist, into which he had wedged a large wooden crucifix. His only ornament was the insignia ring on his finger, and a rosary that swung from his neck. Alfred noted that he looked far different from the glamorous Archbishop of Paris.

"And Ser Wulfheard, of the Oldest Saxon Order," called the announcer.

In strode a large, hairy man covered in bear skins and heavy, iron weaponry. Alfred held his breath. It was really him. A long time had past since Wulfheard left the continent with his father, but Alfred knew him instantly, even though he looked older, whiter, withered.

The young lord realized how much he had also changed and was suddenly embarrassed for his father's man to see him dressed in silks, with straight-combed hair. He wanted to sneak out of the room, but a thought presented itself; the old guard had sworn a life pledge, so if Wulfheard was here, his father was here, too. Alfred looked to the announcer, but the man was standing relaxed, not appearing to have any more names to call out.

"The Lord bless you and keep you, your highness," Archbishop Cnu bowed to Charles. "We have brought a letter from her Royal Highness, Judith of Wessex."

"The letter," Charles demanded, and his servant took it from the archbishop's hand.

The councilman's expulsion from the room was still causing a stir. Some in the room were talking about it, others had the courtesy to whisper, but Alfred's attention was honed on the Saxon men. Wulfheard looked directly at him, and Alfred wondered if he had been recognized as the old guard's eyes flitted over the rest of the assemblage.

Charles broke the seal of wax and unrolled the rough parchment, not at all like the fine lambskin paper that the king used in Paris. Alfred was filled with questions as he waited to hear the words from his father. Was he on the continent? Was he on another ship? Why would he take a separate ship from his bodyguard? Would they be taking Alfred home with them? He was certain that he was about to go home, and excitement filled him.

"Your highness," Cnu stepped forward. "We have come from Wessex with the gravest of news. The old king, Aethelwulf, has given up the ghost, and resides now at the hand of the Father. May his soul rest in eternal peace."

Alfred's heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. For years he did not know if his father was alive or dead, and the news gripped him.

"We are a kingdom most grieved, your highness." Cnu was still talking. "But some of that grief can yet be assuaged. The youngest of our late king's sons is here in your court, and I am hopeful to return with him to the island, that he may take his rightful place as a prince of Wessex."

The king's eyes snapped up from the page in his hand. "This letter tells me that my daughter has been remarried to the eldest son of her husband."

Alfred saw the king flush with anger, and suddenly he was trembling, and his bladder felt very full.

The archbishop spoke again. "This is true, your highness. My King Aethelbald wished to complete the contract made between yourself and his late father, out of respect for the Lady Judith, and for the memory of our king, may his soul rest. It is with the utmost respect that King Aethelbald takes as his wife the great-granddaughter of Emperor Charlemagne. But he does now beg you, King of West Francia, to release Alfred of Wessex, as his time here was on the condition of Judith's kind treatment, which surely has been displayed."

Charles' face reddened. "Am I to trust this young lion, who has taken my daughter without offering anything for her? Nor does he ask my permission to wed her!"

"Your highness, King Aethelbald has sent with me a ship laden with the finest …"

"Tin? Wool?" Charles jeered. "If your island produces any jewels at all, they are rough-cut and cloudy!"

Alfred shook inside. He looked at the open doors, knowing that there was a ship returning to his home somewhere at the docks. He imagined slipping out and stowing away, but he was surrounded by the crowd as well as the watchful eyes of Merovich. Alfred trembled when he thought about what Merovich might be ordered to do to him if he tried to run away.

"Your highness," Cnu begged. "The boy?"

"The boy is of no concern to King Aethelbald. He has … how many brothers? Several. This one is not in the line of succession but set for a life in the church. What is this … Aethelbald's … disposition?"

"He is kind and just. He learned a great deal from his father …"

"Whom he then rebelled against and confined to a corner of his own kingdom because he objected to my daughter being named regent. I should have commanded her returned home upon the threat of WAR at the time!" His voice was growing louder, and the women shrank to the back of the room while many of the servants backed out the doors. Charles continued. "This marriage has no contract!"

Alfred felt sick to his stomach.

"Your highness …" Cnu tried to sooth.

"LEAVE MY SIGHT!" Charles yelled at the room. "ALL OF YOU!"

Alfred shook with terror, his mind running through all the threats that Carloman had made over the years. He thought about being confined to his cell again and the thought made him want to run. He looked at the door, wondering if the crowd could hide him long enough for him to slip out.

The room filled with murmured commotion as the people filed out of the grand room. Wihtred hurried to Alfred's side. "My lord, we must welcome our envoy." Wihtred led him through the throng of people moving quickly out of the room.

Merovich was only two steps behind, and followed them to the atrium, where they found the Saxons, dressed in their finest, which looked very rough by Parisian standards. Wulfheard was standing with his back against the wall, his bare arms crossed over his leather chest-plate while six other men; two clergy and four soldiers, stood listening to the archbishop.

Cnu was explaining to the Saxons who had not been invited into the West Francian king's presence. "The king has not yet assented …"

"Father Cnu." Wihtred smiled, happy to see a familiar face. "My lords," he inclined his head to the others.

Wulfheard looked at Alfred and broke into a grin. "These are the eyes of King Aethelwulf," he announced. "All of the king's children have these eyes. I could not have mistaken you for any other, my lord. It is a great joy to see you well."

"The Lord keep you, Ser Wulfheard." Alfred nodded stiffly, feeling overburdened by the sheer amount of fabric that enveloped him.

"I do hope that you are treated well. We brought gifts for you from your brothers and from your sister, who is now the wife of the King of Mercia."

"Aethelswith is married?"

"Yes, my lord," Wulfheard said, a dampness in his eyes as he looked at the boy. "I see that you keep your seax at your side."

Alfred gripped the wooden handle of his ancestral weapon and remembered the day that his father knelt to tie the leather belt around his waist.

"Alfred of Wessex." Wulfheard stepped forward and Alfred was surprised as the old guard dropped to one knee before him, and they were face-to-face. "The Lord has blessed me," the old man continued. "And brought me here to see you again in my lifetime. If the King of West Francia releases you, or even if he does not, for the love that I bore your father for so many years, I beg to be in your service."

Wulfheard pulled his sword from its scabbard, and Merovich was there in a flash, his own blade already drawn.

"Put it away!" Wihtred growled, stepping in front of Merovich.

Wulfheard laid his sword at Alfred's feet while Frankish lords and ladies stood around them, witnessing the gravity of the moment.

"Allow me, my lord," Wulfheard begged, his beard now damp with his tears. "Though I may soon grow too old and feeble to lift a blade, I will give my life to you, in any capacity that you desire, for as long as I live. All you need do is accept my humble offer."

Alfred looked at the people gathered around. He did not want to do anything that might further upset King Charles, and he was well-aware of Merovich and his sword. Alfred knew that Wihtred would die before he allowed the blade to reach him, but all the same, the blade would kill them both. Wulfheard's eyes were locked on his, pleading with him. He would be shamed if a little boy refused him and Alfred did not want to shame him.

"I …" Alfred tried to find his voice. "I have no need of a bodyguard, as you can see. The good king, Charles, has honored me with the service of Merovich for these past years. But I do have great need of companionship, and I miss my homeland greatly. Ser Wulfheard, I know that you loved my father, and for that love, I cannot deny your request. I ask you into my service."

Wulfheard broke into loud sobs, crying over the sword that he had laid on the ground between them.

"Thank you, my lord," Wulfheard shuddered, wiping his tears.

Alfred wanted to throw his arms around the old man, but he stood as still as possible and waited until Wulfheard gained control of himself, then Alfred bent down and lifted the hilt of the sword. It was too heavy for him to pick up, so he let the tip rest on the ground as he handed over the hilt.

"Thank you, Ser Wulfheard," Alfred whispered.


	18. Chapter 18

The Danish court was alive with men yelling and thumping their canes against the stone floor of the partially built mead hall. Ragnar laughed and shouted as loud as any of them, cheering his son, who was among the center of the attention in the room. Guthrum was growing strong as a prince of the island, where he passed his fifteenth winter. Wisps of red hair had begun to grow on his upper lip, and he was tall and broad like his father.

Guthrum faced Halfdene, who was his own size. The Danish court gathered around, shouting encouragement while Halfdene waited, baiting him. Guthrum charged first, headlong and full of rage. Halfdene side-stepped and tripped him, bringing Guthrum down, his face hitting the stone floor. Guthrum saw the smear of crimson blood on the ground before he felt a trickle run down his lip, and he jumped up, sputtering.

"COME ON, BOY!" Ragnar commanded.

Guthrum did not look at his father, his narrowed eyes settled instead on his opponent. Halfdene dared a glance at his own father, who shook his head sternly. Ragnar saw the small gesture and beat his cane against the floor.

"Do not hold him back, blast you, Hagar! If he can take my boy in a fair fight, then he deserves Guthrum's inheritance! I will take him as my own son and give you this whelp from the winter isles!"

Guthrum raged. He yelled as he attacked Halfdene again, and this time Halfdene did not swerve, but met him full on and they exchanged heavy blows.

"WHAT IN THE NAMES OF ALL THE GODS!" Halfdene's mother shouted as she entered the room and rushed forth, pulling Guthrum back. "His departed mother would whip your hide!" she accused Ragnar.

"Bah." Ragnar waved his hand to dismiss her concerns. "How else will they grow strong?"

"Not by killing one another in boyhood!" Rayna shot back as she hugged Guthrum to her ample bosom. "There is time enough for them to fight, but not with each other! His poor departed mother watches what you do!"

Rayna took Guthrum and Halfdene by their arms and pulled them out the door while the men grumbled with disappointment, but none of them dared to stop her. She took them through the desolate, unfinished portion of the mead hall, where the wind howled with cold and the floor was dotted with patches of snow, and she brought them to the wooden-lodge-end of the hall, where the people were still living until the nicer, stone apartments were complete.

"Mother, it was not Guthrum's fault," Halfdene tried to explain. "I challenged him, and our fathers agreed."

"Tsk." She shook her head. "You two go outside and find some snow to put on your faces, before you both swell."

The boys grumbled but pulled on their wool outer clothes and walked out together under Rayna's doting gaze. In the fields toiled groups of peasants, picking at the hard ground and defying the first frost. They wore heavy iron chains, denoting them from the average peasants, who were also among them, doing the same job.

"So," Halfdene sighed. "What are you so mad about, anyway?"

Guthrum grumbled and looked away.

Halfdene stopped and looked him in the eyes. "It is the voyage, is it not?"

"He will not let me go," Guthrum growled.

"My father will not let me go, either," Halfdene commiserated.

"But we are men now." Guthrum placed a hand over his arm-ring, remembering the ceremony. He turned and started walking, eager to put some distance between himself and his father. "I would have won that fight if your mother had not stopped us ..."

"I do not wish to fight you, cousin," Halfdene promised. "We are strong together. We should fight together."

Guthrum grumbled.

"Do you think your father was really angry?" Halfdene ventured to ask.

Guthrum shook his head. "He is distracted with Ivar's health."

"What is wrong with the boy?"

"He is a weak child." Guthrum pressed his sleeve against his nostril, trying to stop a trickle of blood. "My father is not sure what future station Ivar will be able to hold. He may be a burden on us all for the rest of his life."

"He can still walk."

"Barely. And how will he raise a sword?"

They walked past the peasants, and the rolling white hills spread out before them.

"Do you think they will find the summer island this time?" Halfdene asked.

"I heard my father say that they would go further to the south this time."

"I wonder if ..."

An echoed whinny whipped over the wind and found Guthrum's ear. He cocked his head, and Halfdene raised an eyebrow. They were silent until they heard it again.

"A wild horse?" Halfdene asked.

"Could be."

"We should try to catch it."

"Without a rope?"

"Let us just see if we can find it." Halfdene started off in the direction of the sound, but the wind played tricks in the gullies and hills, and Guthrum knew those tricks better than his cousin.

"You are going the wrong way," Guthrum told him.

Halfdene stopped and listened again. The sound seemed to be behind him now. He shrugged his shoulders and followed Guthrum.

"Careful," Guthrum whispered.

They both knew that the island crawled with wolves, lone or in packs, they were always lingering at the edges of campsites, and they killed men as well as livestock. Ragnar's people had more problems with wolves since they landed than they had with the armies. Guthrum led the way, pushing back heavy branches of pine and brambles of blackberry thorns until they saw the glisten of weaponry. Guthrum realized that the gorge was filled with mounted soldiers. He turned around to warn Halfdene, but as he turned, a dark figure stepped out of the trees and wrapped its arm around Halfdene's neck . The glint of a sword shown in the muted afternoon sunlight.

"You two will not be raising any alarms." The sentry spoke the peasant language.

Guthrum was wide-eyed with surprise. He had not encountered an enemy in the years since his landing. He saw the flash of Halfdene's knife as he pulled it from its sheath.

"Do not hurt him." Guthrum tried to speak Saxon, attempting to draw the man's attention.

Halfdene closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He turned, as quick as lightning, and drove the knife into the sentry's belly. The man opened his mouth to scream, and Guthrum pulled out his own dagger and leapt forward to slice his throat. A gurgling sound poured forth, along with red and black liquid. The man bled over them and fell forward, limp. Guthrum cringed and pushed him away, and he fell to the ground with a thud.

"Cedd!" called a voice from below them. "Is all well?"

The Danish boys looked at one-another. "We have to get out of here," whispered Guthrum. "Their horses run faster than the wind!"

Halfdene pulled a ring off the dead man's finger. "Hurry."

They crept out of the woods, carefully picking their way through the thickest part to evade any pursuer, coming out of the brambles and into a clearing of pristine snow. Guthrum could see the mead hall in the distance, and they took off at a run. The snow slowed them until they reached the worked farmland where the peasants had furrowed the land.

A sound rumbled from behind them. The horses were so heavy that they shook the ground, and Guthrum could feel their hooves beating the Earth. He heard shouting, but he dared not look back. The hall was getting closer, and Guthrum yelled to the guards, waving his arms in the air. "Get your swords!"

Halfdene took up the cry, a step behind him while the ground beneath them reverberated with the thunderous wave of riders.

"GET YOUR SWORDS!" He called with all the breath that he could spare as he ran.

The horses were closing in, but the walls were looming closer as well.

"GET YOUR SWORDS!"

A horn blew from the mead hall and echoed over the land, and Guthrum felt relief wash over him. They had been seen, and the Saxon army had lost its surprise. Then Halfdene tripped and fell. Guthrum looked back and that was when he saw them, and they were closer than he had dared to imagine and bearing down. He grabbed for Halfdene's hand and hauled him to his feet, then he screamed out in fear.

The horses' hooves flew towards them and the broad chests of the beasts threatened to mow them over. But, like a bolt of lightning from the hand of a god, an ax flew from behind the boys, tumbling end over end, and drove deep into the lead horse's heart. The beast stumbled and fell at Guthrum's feet. Shouts from behind them announced the Danish army, and suddenly Guthrum and Halfdene were in the middle of a battle, and Uncle Hagar was there, grabbing them both and pulling them back from the fight.

Guthrum was shaking, and his vision seemed hazy, but the bright light of the daytime assault spread the scene out clearly before him. The horses were beating their hooves against the heavy wooden shields of the Norsemen, and Guthrum watched a shield break into splinters under the insistent kicking of one horse. A Saxon rider leapt to the ground and finished a Norseman. Guthrum blinked and the Saxon rider's head came off his shoulders in a large burst of pink and red goo accompanied by teeth and fragments of skull. Guthrum cheered for the hammer, and the warrior behind it, who then turned to look for another opponent.

The sound of swords slamming against wooden shields filled the air, as did the cries of the Saxons as they fell under Danish iron. Uncle Hagar left the boys, and charged in, and Guthrum and Halfdene felt it; the air was thick with battle and the ground soon slicked with the blood that poured from the horses and the men. Ragnar was there, in the front of the fight. Guthrum did not see him until his father struck a death blow to a mounted Saxon by cutting the rider's femoral artery. He bled out and died without losing his seat, and still his horse battled. Guthrum watched the horses with amazement. He could not believe that an animal could be trained in battle, but he was watching it happen. The horses had to be taken down, and axes were effective, but even in their death throes, the horses did not run.

The Danes screamed out their war cry as the Saxons surged forth, but the air was charged with Danish energy. Guthrum could feel the tide shift, and an overwhelming feeling of victory swelled them. The Saxons had a moment of doubt and it was all the edge the Danes needed to push them back. Once they lost ground, they also lost hope, and they broke and ran.

Guthrum sucked in a deep breath of the air of war. His pulse raced and his heart fluttered amid the sound of the dying left groaning at his feet. He and Halfdene had killed a man. They had struck the first blow and they had warned their fathers about the attack. He felt as much a part of the battle as the blood that stained the snow. He lifted his bloody knife and screamed out in victory;

"YAAAARRRRRR!"

The victory cry filled the hill and echoed to the mead hall.

"Find one that is still alive and bring him to me!" Ragnar shouted.

Hagar pulled a Saxon out of a pile of death, and the man walked, hunched over and pained. Ragnar stood before the captive and spat in his face.

"How many more are there, and where are they right now?"

"We are alone," the Saxon said, speaking Norse.

Ragnar punched him in the gut, and he doubled over so far that Hagar had to pull him back up before Ragnar could take back his fist.

"Which king do you fight for?" Ragnar demanded.

"I will never tell you anything. Kill me now."

"You will wish that I had," Ragnar promised. "Hold him down."

They pinned him to the snowy ground, and Ragnar pulled out his knife while Hagar exposed the white flesh of the prisoner's belly.

"Cut him open," Hagar urged.

"Pull his innards out and show them to him," Rothgar encouraged.

Guthrum watched the Saxon, who was wide-eyed, like a frightened cat. Guthrum grinned as the knife bit in and the blood ran across the man's stomach, which opened, bulging with guts. Guthrum knew that he should be terrified, but a smooth, coolness ran through his veins at the sight of the torture.

"Tell me where they are striking next," Ragnar pressed a hand against the Saxon's gaping wound. "Tell me where they gather."

The prisoner screamed, shaking his head. Ragnar reached into his belly and pulled parts of him out. The man's face went ghastly white, but he was still alive.

"Give me the name of your king. I will only find out anyway."

The Saxon's face changed to a paler shade, and he looked dead, but he was shivering.

"Tell me, or I will not kill you."

"The King of Mercia," the man cried.

"Where is the King of Mercia now?" Ragnar demanded. "Is he close by?"

"No," the man sobbed. "Kill me, please."

"Later. Tell me where I can find the king."

"He will go to Wessex," the man cried. "And beg his brother-in-law for help. Please, let me die!"

"Or I can leave you here to bleed to death." Ragnar turned his bloody blade over in his hand. "Tell me where they will meet."

The Saxon shook his head. "I do not know. Lundene, or Rochester!"

Ragnar looked at Hagar. Guthrum watched them consider mercy. Then his father leaned over the prone figure and sliced his neck as if he were an animal being slaughtered for the roasting pit. The Saxon gasped, but the air went nowhere. He suffocated for a few moments, gasping for breath that would not come, then he looked blankly into space. Guthrum stared at the dead man for a long time, long enough for him to think that the dead man's soul was looking back at him. A cold wind blew over his face, and a shiver ran all the way through his body.


	19. Chapter 19

Alfred stood between Bishop Wihtred and Ser Wulfheard, and they waved to Archbishop Cnu as the Saxon boat set sail. As disappointed as Alfred was that he was not returning home, he was comforted by the old guard. Wulfheard had sworn an oath to remain on the continent with Alfred until the young lord could leave.

When he returned to his room that evening, Alfred was in the company of Wihtred, and Merovich, as always, but he also had a battle-hardened knight who would sleep in his chamber that night. They returned in time for prayer, and Alfred and Wihtred went to the east corner of the room, where they had long ago set up their altar. Alfred knelt to sign himself with the cross and begin the rosary. When his prayer was over, Alfred stood up and rubbed his knees. Disappointment stirred in his belly when he saw that Wulfheard was not praying, just sitting quietly and waiting.

"Would my lord enjoy a hunt along the moors this evening?" Wulfheard raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

Alfred looked to Wihtred, as he often did when someone asked him a question. "Yes." Alfred answered the knight while looking into the eyes of the bishop. "I think that I would."

"Would his highness object …" Bishop Wihtred wondered out loud.

"Who would object to that?" Wulfheard scoffed. "Lord Alfred is free to hunt whenever he pleases."

Alfred smiled at the proposition, though he was not wholly convinced. Wihtred was nervous, and wanted to procure permission, but Wulfheard was in full stride and out the door before an objection could be heard. Wihtred hurried to follow them out of the room and down the stairs. And Merovich got up from his place in the hall and followed as well.

In the main courtyard, several people were milling about, and the guards saw him immediately. He was far more noticeable with his own guard at his side, forfeiting his previous ability to slink along the dark edges of the walls. King Charles was not there, but his heir, Prince Louis, was.

"Where do you think you are off to?" Louis sauntered over, and several young nobles his own age stood close to his back.

Wulfheard looked expectantly at Alfred, apparently full of confidence that the boy could, indeed, come and go as he pleased. Alfred knew that it was not true. He looked to his other side and saw Wihtred standing stoically next to him.

"The lord is …" Wihtred tried to explain.

"I asked HIM." Louis glared at Wihtred.

"We …" Alfred gulped and tried to find his voice. He did not think that Louis would dare to hurt him, or order guards to arrest him, not with Wulfheard at his side. He looked Louis in the eyes. "My men and I are going on an evening hunt." He spoke loud and clear, and his voice seemed to ring off the walls within the courtyard.

"On a hunt? In the evening?" Louis shook his head. "Or is there trickery afoot?"

"Send Merovich to hunt with us," Alfred motioned behind him, and not surprisingly, found Merovich lurking in the shadows. "I am sure that he will alert the king of anything that we do."

"You will take five of my guards with you," Louis ruled.

"Of course, my lord." Ser Wulfheard stepped forward and bowed. "We would welcome your men."

Louis narrowed his eyes at Wulfheard, but he did not stop them. Wulfheard motioned for Alfred to lead them out the front gate, and Alfred took a hesitant step in that direction. The courtyard was as quiet as a funeral while they proceeded. The Frankish soldiers followed over the long bridge that spanned the dark water of the Seine.

"That was easier than I thought," Alfred whispered.

"Me, too," Wihtred agreed.

Wulfheard laughed.

The Frankish soldiers, and Merovich, trailed behind them while Alfred and Wulfheard joked and laughed, and made so much noise that even if there had been any game to hunt in the warm hours of the evening, they would have scared it off. They walked a long way from the hall, and Wulfheard gathered firewood, and Wihtred covered a fallen log with his cloak and motioned for Alfred to sit. Alfred sat down and watched Wulfheard build and light a fire, which sparked to life and warmed his face. He sat with Wulfheard on one side of him and Wihtred on the other. The Frankish soldiers sat on the other side of the fire.

Alfred felt happier than he could remember in a very long time. He listened to the old knight as he began to tell ancient stories in the Saxon tongue, and Alfred could almost smell the peat of his home hearth through the words. He closed his eyes and imagined the scent of his mother's hair when he was little, when he would lay his head in her lap in the evening while they listened to the same stories. He kept his eyes closed while Wulfheard talked, and memories darted through his mind like long-forgotten shadows in a dream. He could not see their faces, but he could hear his father's laughter.

Alfred could not have told which story he just heard as the telling came to an end. He opened his eyes slowly and realized that he had been transcended by the ancient tale and for a fleeting moment, he was home. He turned all the way around and caught sight of Merovich, who stood back at the tree line where he watched Alfred with his hungry wolf-eyes. Alfred turned to his fire. He had managed to forget about Merovich and all about his captivity, but only for a moment.

Night pulled its veil over them, and the sky deepened from blue to purple to black. The fire sank low and the knights watched Alfred for instruction. Alfred expected Merovich, or the captain of the Frankish guard to command them returned to the hall, but as they all said nothing, Alfred ordered the fire built back up, and they sat out telling stories a while longer. Wulfheard encouraged Alfred to talk about Rome and East Francia, and the things that he had learned at school.

When they finally walked back, the darkness around them was complete. Bugs and frogs called, and Alfred wondered for a fleeting moment if an escape would be possible, but then the hall came into view, accompanied by the light from the flames that burned like sentries on the ramparts, and candles burned in the lower windows of the watchtowers. A large fire burned high at the entrance of the city, and Alfred led his men there.

He expected to be stopped and questioned. To find Prince Louis waiting for him would not have been a surprise, but the royal family had long gone to sleep. The guards at the door stepped aside, and the five men assigned to him by Prince Louis turned away from Alfred and went to the main hall, and Alfred and his men climbed the steps to their own chamber. Merovich's men were waiting outside the chamber door, and watched them as they went inside, giving their captain a short reprieve from his duties, and the first one that Alfred had noticed in all his time under Merovich's eye.

Wulfheard sat down on the inside of the door, barely a breath away from the Frankish guards, and pulled out his sword and wet stone. Alfred watched the old knight scrape the stone across the blade and listened to the satisfying ring that it made after each stroke.

"May I try that?"

"Of course." Wulfheard handed Alfred the tool, but the young lord was clumsy with the large, heavy sword. "Shall we try your own seax instead?" Wulfheard suggested. "We shall put an edge on it that will shave a single hair."

Alfred pulled his knife from its scabbard, and as he did every time he held it, Alfred remembered a figure that eclipsed the sun kneeling to tie the belt around his waist. He could almost remember his father's face, but the silhouette-memory was too dark for him to make out the features. He sat down with Wulfheard, who sounded and dressed as his father had. And, like his father would have, Wulfheard instructed him on sharpening his blade.

"You have never sharpened a blade before, my lord?" Wulfheard asked, his brow knit with concern.

Alfred felt self-conscious as he realized how clumsy his attempts were.

"You must learn to take care of blades. You will learn swordsmanship, and horsemanship. I must teach you archery, farming, and building."

Alfred worried that so much had been planned for him. "But, Wulfheard," he interrupted. "I am for the church."

"Yes, well …" Wulfheard glanced at Wihtred. "Of course, there will be time for that training, too."

Wihtred fretted about Alfred's lack of prayer that day but allowed the boy to fall asleep nestled in the old guard's arms, listening to stories about his father's bravery in battle, and all of Wulfheard's first-hand accounts of Alfred's earliest years.

Alfred turned more towards Wulfheard's teaching, and further away from his biblical studies, and the Christmas season that year was for Alfred a mixture of his traditionally observed piety, and some of the fun of which he had denied himself in the previous years in Francia. He had been too afraid of Carloman to attend many of the youth celebrations, but Wulfheard informed him that "Carloman has cloven feet and his mother birthed him out of her arse", which made Alfred laugh. He felt confident with Wulfheard close at hand.

They woke at midnight and Alfred followed Wihtred to the over-flowing chapel where the first mass of the day was held; the Angel's Mass. Some went back to their beds when the prayers were over, but Alfred went to the main hall where feasting for the day had begun with breads and puddings. King Charles strictly observed feast day, though days of fasting were only loosely enforced.

The seasonal games were going on around him, but Alfred had no interest in their plays and comics. He went with Wihtred to the main altar of the house to reflect on the miracle of the virgin birth, and they prayed and meditated for hours, then stretched their legs to light some candles and look over the Bible. The bells for the Sheppard's mass rang at dawn, just as Alfred's head started to wobble over his reading.

Wihtred smiled at his pious young charge, and they walked quietly together, back to the chapel. The light crust of snow was invigorating, and Alfred liked the crisp smell of it, as well as the crunch of the freeze beneath his feet. The chapel was just as crowded for the second mass of the day, but some of the attendants had changed. King Charles and his sons were not present, but his queen and daughters were. The second mass went on for nearly two hours before the archbishop dismissed them.

"You should rest now," Wihtred suggested.

But the raucous celebration was in full swing when they returned to the hall. There, King Charles and all his sons shouted greetings to the returning worshippers. Alfred shook the cold from his cloak and let the roaring fires melt the snowflakes from his hair and eyelashes.

The Christmas celebration in King Charles' Parisian hall was as elaborate as anything Alfred had ever known, and entertainment ranged from music to acrobatics, to dramas and comedies, all of it underscored with roast goose, venison, mincemeat pie, and a swan, which had been roasted and redressed in its own magnificent feathers. The people wore their most colorful vestments, and Alfred donned the outfit that was given to him, though he would have preferred to be as understated as Wihtred, who nearly disappeared in the room full of bright fabrics, colors, and sparkling jewels.

The third mass, the Mass of the Divine Word, crowded the chapel so much that the less affluent listened from the courtyard. Alfred stood near the royal family, all of whom attended the final mass of the day, but all seemed eager to return to their fires.

Alfred retired shortly after the last mass and the main feast. His head swam with wine and pounded with music, and he was thankful for the solitude of his cell. Alfred laid down to sleep and the lights were lowered. The sound of Wihtred snoring filled the small room, and Alfred smiled at his own good fortunes.

A distant crash interrupted the sounds of the celebration, and they heard voices shouting. Alfred shifted on his straw mattress and turned toward the doorway of the cell, and then he heard yelling and panic.

"What is happening?" Alfred wondered aloud, a touch of annoyance in his voice, because his first thought was the rowdiness of his hosts.

Wulfheard had woken in a flash and was standing at the door in an instant. Merovich and his men were at attention outside. The old knight unsheathed his sword, and Wihtred sat up, snorting as he woke.

Alfred heard guards shouting and running outside. "Wulfheard," Alfred's voice quivered. "What is …"

Merovich shoved past his own guards and stormed into the room. "Bring the boy."

Alfred shrank back. "What is happening?"

No one answered him, and as he feared, no one knew until they heard a battering ram slam into the front gate of the city, echoing through the walls of the great hall. Alfred screamed, but controlled himself and hurried along with his cleric and guards. The halls were dark but for the torch lights that the men carried, and the shadows chased them as they ran down the stone steps.

They stepped out into the chilly night air and Alfred shivered. He could hear the common people shrieking with terror outside the walls. They came to the blazing light of the main hall, where King Charles and his family were standing together.

"What do we do?" Carloman was asking his father.

"Your highness," one of the men motioned for them to follow.

The servants were close behind the royals, hoping to be shown a way to safety, and Alfred was pressed from behind in the panic. They ran through a corridor and into the courtyard by the stables.

"They are at the gates!" A stable boy shouted from his perch on the roof of the stable where he watched with wide, terrified eyes at what was happening beyond Alfred's vision. "Run!"

"Who is it?" Alfred clung to Wihtred's robes.

"Give me the boy," Merovich commanded.

Alfred wrapped his arms around Wihtred.

"He is safer on my horse," Merovich insisted.

"He can ride with Ser Wulfheard," Wihtred suggested.

"You will not defy the king's order."

Alfred squeezed the bishop, who patted his back.

"Let us go!" King Charles roared, looking down from his saddle. "There is no time!"

"My lord," Wihtred whispered, trying to dislodge the boy's arms.

Not wanting to make a scene, Alfred let go, and Merovich leapt into his saddle, reaching a hand down for him.

"You will be safe," Wihtred promised as he lifted Alfred up to the guard's waiting hand. "God watches over you!"

King Charles' horse took off first and Merovich was behind him before Wihtred could find his mount. Alfred looked about desperately and found Wulfheard riding at his side. He could see the aged knight, even in the darkness, even in the madness that surrounded them. The people were silhouetted as they bounded into the darkness. Their horses cut through the invaders, and Alfred saw a guard fall from his horse, blood spraying in the torch light that illuminated the crimson splash. The guard was not Wulfheard, Alfred could recognize him by his beard and his furs, and the way that he sat his horse.

A scream erupted from behind him, but Alfred could not look back to see who it was. He worried for his own men. He saw raised, bloodied swords beyond them, but their horses crashed through the melee, and Alfred heard a horse call out in its death throes, and then his own mount was leaping over the body of a horse and rider, and Alfred had no time to look down and see who it was as Merovich urged the horse on.

They cleared the western gate and Alfred looked back to see torches entering the city from the east. He could hear the screams of the people, and the crashing sound of their homes being pulled down.

"You cannot escape me." Merovich whispered into Alfred's ear. "You cannot run away. A thousand guards could not protect you if you tried."

"Merovich, I would never try."

"Oh, one day you will," Merovich told him. "And when that day comes, I will hunt you down like an animal, and slay you like one."

Alfred gulped and looked down at the horse's neck in front of him. They did not stop riding until they reached Calais, until the light rose behind them and the smell of saltwater danced in their noses. The horses were frothing at their mouths when the bugles played over the walls, and a loud creaking sound announced the opening of the city's gate.

A legion of armed men poured forth and rode toward them. Charles ran straight into them, and Merovich followed. Alfred was white with fear and his fingers were number from holding the horse's hair too tight. The army that poured forth parted like the Red Sea before Moses, and the legion thundered around them, and once past, they closed behind the king's group.

"Protect the king!" the soldiers shouted. "This way!"

Alfred looked back and saw the men from Calais engage in battle and saw that the forces that had overtaken Paris had been behind them all night. His heart skipped when he realized just how close they were. The horses skidded into the safety of the walls of the great port city, and Alfred prayed that the king would put him on a ship and keep on running all the way to Wessex.

"Who dares?!" King Charles came off his horse and accused the first man he saw, the Lord of Calais.

"It is your nephew," the lord said. "Prince Charles of East Francia has gathered an army. We see his banners from our walls."

"Bar the city gates and put archers everywhere you can find a place for them." King Charles was scared. It was the first time Alfred had seen fear in him. "Command my lords at arms. That fat nephew of mine will be crushed from behind! We can send messages by ship!"

Alfred shivered and leaned against Wihtred for warmth. His toes were freezing while Charles ranted around the snowy courtyard.

"I curse the day that fat slob was brought wailing into this world!" Charles shouted. "And hear this! I swear by God that I will be the man to take him, wailing again, back out of it!"

The king swore-by-God so many times that Alfred's ears were aching. He could not feel anything below the ankles, and he was tired enough to weep.

Charles finally realized the climate. "I am cold!" The king yelled at the servants and lords around him. "Build up my fire!"

Alfred was relieved that they were allowed to go inside, where they found that the day's activities were well underway. The servants of the Hall of Calais tried to carry on some of their business as usual, though they were walled into the house, which was bursting with the king's entourage. As much as Alfred would have liked to lie down and rest for a few hours, the place was bustling. Instead, he took advantage of a warm fire and thawed his hands while the servants offered him wine, blankets, and berries. He borrowed the house's bound copy of the Bible and tried to keep his mind busy while he listened to the siege outside.

Alfred opened the vellum tomb and found the first story that came to be in front of him. It was the story of the City of Jericho, and the prostitute Rahab, who helped the Israelites enter the city. Alfred's eyes drifted to the door of the hall, where the sound of men mustering in the courtyard rattled the walls. Alfred wondered if the East Frankish soldiers would come into the Hall of Calais and indiscriminately slay everyone inside, as the Israelites had done to the people of Jericho. He wondered if he had the bravery to take a chance to betray King Charles and open the gates for the would-be conquerors, and then he saw Merovich, lurking in the shadows of the house, watching him.

Frightened, Alfred snapped his eyes back to the page in front of him, in case Merovich could divine his rebellious thoughts. Alfred read the story, where only the prostitute and her family were spared from the swords of the conquering army. But Alfred was not brave enough to go against the king, and tears eked out of the corners of his eyes as he prayed, not for strength but for preservation.

Horns and trumpets blasted outside the fortified walls of Calais, and Alfred thought of the trumpets of Joshua's army. His skin reverberated with the terrifying sound of them, and the king paced, muttering. The only breaks in the afternoon were King Charles' shouted demands for updates from the lords outside the walls, but no word came. To the west, the sea lapped the shores of the town, and Alfred longed to be on a ship, with distance growing between himself and the king's estranged nephew.

Prince Carloman and his brothers remained silent and pressed their backs against the wall. They knew more than to upset their father, or even get in his line of view when his mood was so gray. Alfred retreated to the shadows as well, under the ever-watchful eye of Merovich.

The siege went on into the night, and the trumpets continued to blow. "And during the night of the seventh day of the onslaught," Alfred whispered to the dark, "the priests blew on their horns and the men shouted a great shout …"

Wihtred placed a hand on his arm, silencing him. But in Alfred's mind the biblical story continued. 'And the walls fell, and they killed every living thing; the young and the old. Every man, woman, child, and beast. Nothing of them remained.'


	20. Chapter 20

The Eastern forces took a rest near dawn, and Charles was ready for them. He sent the Western forces pouring out of the gates while Alfred sat close to Wihtred and Ser Wulfheard. King Charles glared at the Saxon knight. "Will you not go and fight?" he huffed at Wulfheard.

The old, weathered knight stood up, straightening his back and lifting his chin. "Your royal highness," he said, loud and clear. "I will fight to my death."

Charles studied his face for a moment, then looked down at Alfred with a glowering menace. Alfred could not look away. He met the king's eyes, looking up with his neck at an extreme angle as he was seated on the ground, his eye as low as the king's knee. Alfred had never felt so small, and the look in the king's eye informed him that he was insignificant. But the king turned away and did not order the Saxon to leave the hall, as Alfred had momentarily feared he would.

Alfred and Wihtred went to the altar at the back of the hall to pray. "The king has taken a battalion out and routed the easterners." Alfred overheard talk among the crowded hall, but kept his head lowered in prayer. "There are more eastern forces coming in, but they are pushed back from the town, and we can no longer hear their horns."

Alfred thanked God for answering his prayer. The mood of the hall had lifted as the good news was spread, and Alfred joined his guard at a roaring fire while Prince Louis called for entertainment and food to celebrate his father's victory. The king returned to the cheers and raised cups of the people waiting within, but the grim look on Charles' face brought an end to the celebration.

The tide of the battle had turned against him when his lords had not come to his aid, and they were walled in at Calais for another night. The inhabitants of the city began a half-hearted celebration of the Day of John the Apostle, but most of the traditions were muted or altogether ignored. Alfred wanted to cry when he heard the horns and trumpets return. He wished dearly for his father, or his mother's comforting touch. Tears rolled down his cheeks in the dark that night, and for several more nights to follow.

Just before the Feast of the Epiphany, King Charles' forces were victorious, and pushed back the easterners enough that the royal family moved out of Calais. Trumpets sounded and people cheered for the victorious king as they marched their caravan, at long last, out of the walled city. Charles shouted and waved, smiling and laughing, and he was in a glorious mood as they traveled east through his kingdom, which was finally under control.

They made it only one manor house beyond Calais and the king decided to stop to rest and feast, and Alfred was not surprised that the break in travel lasted the night. Alfred hated leaving the coast. He had smelled the saltwater and the fish and could almost feel the swaying of a boat beneath his feet. He wanted to go home.

He sought out a quiet place within the hall and settled back, rolling his rosary beads between his fingers. His lips moved as he said the prayers to himself, and he did not notice a young girl looking at him. When Alfred looked up, he was astonished to see the friendly smile of Wisigard, though she now looked much different.

"Praise God!" Alfred pulled himself to his feet. "It is wonderful to see you again!"

"Maybe not 'wonderful'," she blushed, looking around to see who was overhearing them. The hall was bursting at its seams with people, and quite a few glanced in their direction.

"I have not seen you since I went to Rome last. Or was it East Francia? I do not remember."

She was smiling. "It has been some years. I was married away while you were gone. I am the lady of this house."

"How lucky." Alfred moved to the bench next to her.

"Uh," she stood slowly. "Perhaps we should not sit together."

Alfred chuckled. "Are the old biddies still at it?" Alfred looked around for Wisigard's ladies-in-waiting. "They never liked me."

"Lord Alfred, understand. You are a boy and I am a girl."

"I do not know why it matters so much."

"Yes, well you are still so young."

"You are not much older than I."

"That is true. But girls grow up faster. But, tell me about your travels around the world!"

"Perhaps you could tell me something, if you know." Alfred was serious, and he lowered his voice, causing Wisigard to step closer to him. He asked her; "Do you know any news of Wessex? Of my father? Or the situation there?"

Her cheeks reddened, and her eyes moistened. "You do not know? They did not tell you?"

"Is it true then? My brother murdered our father?"

She was surprised. "No, dear friend. Your father died of his age."

Alfred felt a wave of relief that he had not expected. "He died of age?" He was dumbfounded. He had believed Carloman's lies. He was angry with himself for believing such a liar. Alfred shook his head. As he glanced around the large hall, he found the group of royal boys, among them, Carloman. The liar.

"You know do you not," Alfred mused quietly, "that Carloman has cloven feet, and his mother birthed him out of her arse."

Wisigard burst out laughing. Several servants glanced at her and she put her hand over her mouth. "Alfred, I have never known you to say such things."

Alfred smiled down at his toes so that no one would see him smiling at her. Even though he was only a young boy, he realized that his company with her was making some uncomfortable. "Thank you for telling me about my brother. I hear that he married Princess Judith?"

"That is also what I have heard. It does not sound like a happy union."

"I should leave your side," Alfred suggested. "Or perhaps your union will be less happy."

"It is good to see you, my friend."

"The Lord keep you." Alfred walked away without glancing back at her, but he was being watched by a group of men he did not know. He recognized the lord of the hall by his sigil, and he steered cleared of the man for the rest of the evening. When King Charles was tired, the house settled into their straw beds, and some woven walls were brought out to set around the king and queen for their privacy.

Alfred laid back, watching in the dark while Wisigard made her way to her own sleeping place with her husband, a man much older than herself. As he was about to drift to sleep, a loud bang on the front door announced the enemy army. The hall was a flurry of yelling, and soldiers rushing, and Alfred was moved to the back of the hall with the king's children. Wisigard, and the other women and children huddled with them. She glanced at him, and he wished that he could assuage her fear. The battering ram hit the front doors again, and the wooden bar groaned under the pressure.

"That bastard has dared to …!" Charles was too angry to finish speaking but donned his sword belt and got astride his waiting horse, which was the only animal that had been permitted to spend the night in the crowded hall. "Kill those bastards!"

Alfred almost screamed out his objection as Charles' men pulled back the bar and flung open the doors. The hall drained of its people as sand drains from an hourglass, filtering through the open door and fanning out to meet the enemy. King Charles rode out, too, his horse screeching at the night. The doors of the hall were pushed closed again, and Alfred managed to gasp with disbelief.

"Why would he do that?" Alfred wondered out loud.

"That's what brave leaders do," Carloman said, watching the door with loving admiration.

Alfred glanced at Wisigard whose husband was among the soldiers who had rushed out of the building. He looked for Wihtred and Wulfheard, who were next to him. "What do we do if …"

Wihtred laid a hand on his shoulder, silencing him.

Others were asking the hard questions all around him, and Alfred's head was swirling with the dozens of different predictions everyone had for what was going to happen that night. Alfred wished there were a back door on the hall, out of which they could flee. He was ashamed of his cowardliness, and tried to remember that Jesus Christ was a warrior, and it was his challenge to rise to the image of Christ in every way that he could.

"Wulfheard, can you spare me a sword?" Alfred asked.

Wulfheard looked down in surprise, but he unbuckled one of the three swords he always carried, and fastened the shortest one around Alfred's waist. "Remember all that I taught you, and you will do well."

"Yes, Wulfheard." Alfred could not remember a single thing he had ever been taught in his life. He watched the unbarred doors and the whole hall silenced and listened to the fighting going on outside. Alfred's bladder felt very full, and he was working hard not to start crying. He unsheathed the sword and stood with Charles younger sons and the few other men who remained in the hall. They watched the doors and collectively gasped when they rattled and were pushed open.

Charles rushed in, no longer on his horse, and many others hurried after him, closing and barring the doors after they flowed in and re-filled the living space. Alfred stood back and sheathed his sword while Charles' sons rushed to him. "We are not defeated," Charles announced. "And we should fear no further attack tonight."

Charles had pushed the invaders, and the following day the invaders pushed him back. Wisigard's husband hosted the entire royal entourage for several days, but the hall was not safe, and Charles ordered the royal family moved back to Calais before Candlemas. Wisigard stood behind her husband as the royal caravan lined up and started back west again.

Alfred rode into Calais on his own horse. Not his horse, Cloud, who he had not seen since Burgundy was overrun. He patted the neck of the chestnut stallion as he looked out over the open waters of the channel. It was a far different arrival than sharing a saddle with Merovich after a hard night ride. That day he was not afraid, even though he mused that they could be killed at any moment along the road. He thought that perhaps he had lost his fear of death, having lived with the constant threat of it for so long.

Calais was a beautiful city, when one was not fearing for his life. They settled into the overcrowded, but safely walled city and waited out the rest of the winter. Alfred practiced with swords every day while they waited, his fear of seeing a battle firsthand nagging consistently on his conscience. Just as life in Calais was becoming routine, the first spring thaw had the queen itching to move.

"My dear," Charles said to his queen as they rode their horses in front of Alfred and their own children. "This is not a necessary precaution."

"I never feel safe," she said.

Alfred realized that he had never heard her speak to her husband and had rarely heard her speak at all. She was forceful about leaving Calais, though, and Alfred's heart soared when he realized that they were about to board a ship.

Alfred boarded and found a place at the stern, waiting for the exhilarating feeling of the ship being set out into the waves of the channel. It would be wise to seek shelter in Wessex, Alfred thought, and he hoped the queen would think the same. But night fell and the ship remained in harbor.

Alfred looked to Wihtred. "For what do we wait?" he whispered.

"The king is not on board. Perhaps …"

"You two," a soldier interrupted. "Go below, the queen demands it."

Alfred went to the hull where the queen was humming and rocking her smallest child. Alfred found a place as far from them as he could and he and Wihtred got comfortable for the night, though they did not start to slumber until a few minutes before sunrise.

When they woke up the following morning the soldiers brought food from a source outside. Alfred wondered why they were not stocking food for the voyage, while still the ship sat. He prayed for patience, and he prayed for the queen to come to her senses and get them away from West Francia, but the sun set again on the ship still anchored in the harbor.

"Does anyone know we are here?" Alfred whispered to the dark.

Wihtred laid a hand on his shoulder. A week of living on the ship was interrupted only by a letter carried to the deck by an enthusiastic soldier.

"Your highness," called the soldier. "It is from the king!"

The queen snatched the page from him and held it close to a candle. "We are to meet Charles in Burgundy," she read, a smile spreading across her face. "All is well!"

Alfred felt deflated.

The royal family left the boat for the first time in days. They got on their horses as clouds covered the sky, as if the Lord himself was telling them that they were going the wrong way. Alfred prayed for the queen to see that it was a sign, but she pressed on, even when the baby wailed with wet and cold, they traveled to Burgundy in a downpour. They made their sullen and soaked journey with a legion of West Franciscan troops around them. Wulfheard and Merovich rode on either side of Alfred, and the king's children rode in front of him. Alfred looked back over his shoulder where Wihtred followed, reflecting his own sad expression.

Charles met them at the gates of Burgundy, a broad grin under his sparkling crown, despite the rainwater that ran from his brow and down his beard.

"We are victorious!" the king shouted to them as they dismounted.

Alfred dropped to the ground, into the mud. He was so exhausted that he had begun to think that death would be a relief after living on the run for so long, wondering every day if it would be his last. He went into the hall with the others and they retreated to private cells to dry and redress, then Alfred joined the royal family where they ate and listened to the king boast.

"I am most favored by the pope," Charles informed them, a look of smug, self-importance on his face. "All was nearly lost in the kingdom, as Emperor Lothair was letting King Ludwig and sons cross through the middle kingdom to attack us. They had an endless supply of men and horses. My so-called lords refused to answer my call. They are answering now, I assure you." Charles laughed. "When my brother, Louis, took this hall, he called to the priests to anoint him king. But word from the Pope gathered all the church powers against my elder brother, for the loyalty that I showed the pope when he refused Lothair's divorce."

"Then … we have lost nothing, Father?" Prince Lothair asked.

"Nothing has been lost," Charles smiled, patting his son on the shoulder. "But now I know where I stand with the pope. And one day I, King Charles, will be I, Emperor Charles. You wait and see."


	21. Chapter 21

The royal party numbered over two hundred, with King Aethelbald and his wife, Judith, riding in the vanguard. The royal couple wore their crowns, and jewelry laden with precious gems, while the soldiers around them rattled with weaponry. They were an impressive group, churning their path to mud behind them. The horses' legs were caked with filth up to their knees and the hem of Judith's dress was brown and stiff. The young girl was exhausted, but they rode until twilight, until Aethelbald found a hill upon which they could spend the night.

"Halt here," Aethelbald said at the base of the hill, swinging his leg over and sliding off his horse.

Judith was bent over in pain and could barely command her legs to work. The servants dismounted and rushed to her, and she fell into their arms. The women walked on either side of her, speaking Franconian in low, soothing tones as they helped her up the hill. Bishop Gregory followed also, casting a reproachful glance at the king. Aethelbald glared back at Gregory, but he dared not arrest or kill him, lest the power of Almighty God strike him down. He watched his wife's party climb to the top of the hill where they built a fire and sat her in its glow. He turned away from them, still having a great deal of work to do to make sure that the camp was settled and secure.

As the peasant workers caught up with the caravan, they began lighting more fires, gathering wood to replace their stores, and fetching fresh water. The servants set up camp in a ring around the army, which was arrayed along the side of a gentle slope, encircling the king. If anyone were to attack the camp, they would have to mow through the servants first, who would hopefully have time to raise an alarm. Next were the horses and soldiers, followed by the inner walls of the king's trusted knights and eldermen, along with entire packs of wolfhounds which followed the masters of their houses.

After Aethelbald finished checking his defenses, he climbed the hill and stepped into the campsite where Judith was studiously looking away from him, over the grasslands to the world beyond their fire light. Her ladies tried to make her comfortable, but she ignored them. At the age of seventeen, she still had the round cheeks of childhood, but her blue eyes were deep with experience, as well as mistrust. Aethelbald looked away from her. After two years of marriage she had not produced an heir, not even a daughter, nor a shadow of a pregnancy. It was embarrassing for him. His own father had five legitimate sons, and several bastards as well, and she sat there in the light and warmth of his fire, barren as she had always been.

Aethelbald turned to Theobald as they settled onto the blanket near the fire. "You will take my brother, Aethelred, to Kent at daybreak. And when you get there, find Aethelbert to raise an army and come to me at Winchester. We will go north together and meet King Burgred. His letters sounded most anxious."

"It will be done," Theobald swore.

They talked about war, pagans, and weapons. The king accepted a bladder of ale and a handful of cherries from a manservant while pheasant cooked over the fire. Aethelbald munched and slurped as he looked over his wife, who still refused to meet his eyes. Their night was uncomfortable, not only due to the emotional strain between them, but also because the hard ground made marital duty even less tolerable to Judith.

"My brothers are still the only heirs that I have," Aethelbald grumbled as they settled into their beds of deer hides and wool blankets. "When will you give me a son?"

Judith turned away from him, pretending to feel shamed by his displeasure. She closed her eyes and remembered what Gregory had taught her; it was right to be barren, even in the eyes of the Lord, because this marriage had not been sanctioned. Judith listened to Aethelbald's breath become steady and deep, and she hated him with every part of herself. She hated every hair on his head.

When she woke at first light, it was to the sound of thirteen-year-old Aethelred complaining. "Let me come with you, your highness," Aethelred begged. "I should be part of this fight!"

"You will remain in Kent, with Gwald," Aethelbald insisted. "At this time, I am glad that Alfred is on the continent, should we all be killed in the battles to come."

"No!" Aethelred shook his head.

"Do not worry, little brother." The king laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "If I die, it will only be after I have dispatched a hundred of them." Aethelbald signaled to Theobald, who took twenty men with him.

Judith cringed at the thought of getting back in the saddle, and she looked to Gregory for strength. The old bishop handed her a steaming cup and she drank the foul-tasting medicine quickly, then let her servants help her up. Once the king was in his saddle, the procession resumed its march. Another long day commenced, and Judith dashed a few stray tears from her eyes. She did not want her husband to see her crying. She did not want to give him the pleasure of her pain. She was relieved at evenfall when she saw smoke drifting and heard horns blowing, and finally laid her eyes on a ville.

The banners were those of the House of Winchester, which waved in the wind just below the three-lion-sigil of Wessex. People crowded the doorway of the long, tunnel-shaped hall, and the few scattered buildings around it also boasted a host of curious eyes. Aethelbald led them across the field, and the Elderman of Winchester rode to them with his arms open in welcome.

"Your higheness!" called the elderman, who was a fat, dark-haired man wearing expensively dyed clothes.

"Lord Eahlmund!" Grinned Aethelbald. "It is good to see a house for the first time in days!"

"I can accommodate most of your host, my lord, and I have plenty of camping ground for the rest. You honor us with the presence of your lovely wife, I see. Lady Winchester will be so pleased."

They rode to the hall where horses were being taken out of the stable to make places for the influx of people. Aethelbald and Judith followed the lord of the house to the courtyard, where servants helped the king and queen from their mounts. Judith gasped at the pain of being in the saddle for so long, and the ladies of the house rushed to assist her as her own handmaidens were still astride their horses. She let the women take her into the hall where she settled before the main hearth fire. Judith laid down and stretched her pained muscles.

"Have you seen any pagans this way?" Aethelbald asked Eahlmund as the two men settled into the straw on the opposite side of the hearth, leaving Judith to rest.

"Not here in Winchester, my lord," Eahlmund told him. "But they pick at the borders. We have seen the smoke from other towns along the rivers."

"For years they have been picking," Aethelbald said. "They give no relent. When my brother arrives with the army from Kent, we will go north toward Mercia and talk will turn to war."

"Winchester is yours, my lord."

Aethelbald glanced at Judith and found her asleep in the straw. She continued to be a disappointment to him, and he knew that she hated him in return. He talked to the men of the house about tactics, told war stories, and drank into the night. When the king was tired, the house settled instantly, and Aethelbald took a place next to his wife. He looked up into the black swill of smoke at the ceiling of the darkening hall and listened to the sounds of sleep all around him. He was among his friends, his army, and the eldermen who were sworn to him.

Wondering why he was still so unhappy, Aethelbald glanced at Judith, who slumbered peacefully. He thought about ways to get rid of her, but every one of them would bring King Charles of mighty West Francia with boatloads of soldiers. Indeed, he would give the foreign king a reason to take his entire kingdom and his family's hereditary titles. No, he could not get rid of her, and she was in no danger of dying in childbirth any time soon.

He listened to the sounds of sleep all around him, but his mind was buzzing. He was on his way to face the pagan horde, if they were not too cowardly to meet on field of battle. They would probably break and run when they saw his army combined with that of his northern neighbor, and brother-in-law, the King of Mercia. Burgred would be waiting with feasts and drink when they arrived. He reflected on his enemy and frowned at the ceiling. They were like wild beasts, and he considered them to be the intelligence of bears. Unfortunately, they had the strength of bears as well.

The dark swill at the rafters turned a pale gray as Aethelbald contemplated into the morning, and he was the only one awake when the trumpets blew in the distance. "MY HORSE!" Aethelbald commanded, bringing servants awake as he jumped to his feet.

Aethelbald's horse was saddled and waiting for him by the time he had his sword belt and helm in place. The king leapt into the saddle and the servants pulled back the large, wooden door. Aethelbald kicked his beast and rode out, dashing to the top of the hill in the long shadow of the early morning. Eahlmund and the other eldermen caught up with him and they all turned toward the sound of the trumpet, which had gone silent.

"Could be pagans," whispered Aethelbald.

"Not possible," gasped Eahlmund.

"Get the men ready." Aethelbald scanned the white fog for any movement. The army mobilized in another minute, and every man was dressed and mounted when King Aethelbald came down the hill and rode out in front of them, raising his sword. "WITH ME!" Aethelbald shouted, and moved his men forward at a steady march, looking for the enemy.

The gully was filled with thick white fog, which reached its tendrils through tree branches above, and wrapped around the legs of their horses below. Frigid wind blew and billowed through the fog, making trees appear to move. The men were nervous and ready, with weapons drawn and breath bated.

"Eahlmund," Aethelbald said. "Take my right."

Eahlmund was old, and the king doubted his abilities in battle, but he was the highest-ranking lord in the company, and therefore deserving of the privilege. The white-haired old man moved to Aethelbald's right, and the rest of the army spread out over the land and wove through the trees, watching for pagans. Aethelbald listened, but there were no birds singing, only the sound of his army advancing into the white nothing that surrounded them.

A shout sounded from one of the men and broke the silence but was cut short. Aethelbald looked over his right shoulder, but he could not see the man in distress through the fog. Another short, strangled scream emitted on his left.

"Men!" Aethelbald called. "Stand together!"

A clash of weaponry rang out and the grunts of men fighting permeated the air, and Aethelbald found himself in the middle of the battle before he saw his first combatant. A hulking gray mass came running at him, materializing out of the mist of the morning, swinging a menacing hammer over its head.

"YARRRR!" screamed the mass-in-the-mist.

Aethelbald was ready. He kicked his mount into a run, sword drawn. Eahlmund was on his heels, trying to keep pace with him, and they cut the pagan down where he stood, slashing him on either side with their swords. The hammer fell from the pagan's hand as his head fell from his body.

Aethelbald roared. He could hear the fight raging but he could not see any of it. The mist moved for a moment, parting like a veil. He saw several of them, standing quietly, watching him. As soon as Aethelbald saw them, they broke from their cover of trees and cold, thick air, and rushed forward, overwhelming the king and his lord, dragging them down from their horses despite the mad swipes of their swords.

Aethelbald cried out as they pulled him from his saddle and threw him on the ground. The breath went out of him, and he gasped for air. His mouth frothed as he tried to wrench his limbs away from their grip, but the pagans held him down on the ground. Swords rang out and Aethelbald could hear men dying, but he could not see them. He could smell the enemies' breath wash over him as they swarmed him like a nest of bees.

Eahlmund called out as he, too, was dragged from his horse. Aethelbald could still see him, though the fog blurred all the outlines as a long knife was plunged into Eahlmund's belly, and he heard the gurgling scream of the elderman, choking on his own blood while still struggling to raise his sword.

Aethelbald gained his breath and shouted to his warriors, but the only answer he received was the sound of weapons thudding on wooden shields. Men shouted and horses neighed so loud that he could barely hear the pounding of his own heart, which echoed in his ears.

The wind swooped low over the battlefield and rattled the grass next to Aethelbald's face, tickling him softly. Above him, the canopy of trees rustled in a breeze that cared nothing for the chaos that had broken on the ground. Birds flew above them, and Aethelbald saw them at the same time he saw the axe. The steel glinted in the light of the early morning sun, which broke through the thick fog, and cleared the world around him in a crisp focus that he had never known before. His last moment on Earth was beautiful.


	22. Chapter 22

The sound of her voice filled the space between the walls. Even the fires seemed to crackle quieter in respect of the haunting tune, which was accompanied by no lute nor harp, only the peasant's voice. Judith shivered next to her fire, tears brimming in her eyes as she listened to the ancient song, sung in a language dead and gone with words filled with brave gravity; a wounded, lonely sound, which made her think of barren hills and gray skies.

She turned to look at Bishop Gregory sitting by her side, but he was not looking at her, nor was he watching the slight little peasant girl with the consuming voice. He was watching the front of the hall. They were all listening to the world beyond the walls, where the battle was coming closer. Judith shivered again, despite the roaring blaze in the hearth.

"My lady." The Lady of Winchester draped a soft, clean blanket over her shoulders, and she huddled beneath it.

Judith sat with the others on the straw covered the ground, and she missed the long benches and tables of the Hall of Paris. She hated the island, where everyone sat on the ground, even a queen. The peasant girl's song came to a pitch, and her voice wavered like an undulating wind. Judith heard sobbing from the women who sat near her, but she did not understand the words, which were not Saxon, but some more-ancient form of British.

A loud bang against the barred front door brought the peasant's song to an abrupt end. The singer screamed, and the guards near the door unsheathed their swords. Judith looked at the guards, a group made up of old men and young boys. The real warriors had gone down the hill when the war horns were blown. Judith felt tears of hopelessness running down her cheeks.

"Please, dearest highness," Gregory clucked his tongue. "Do not let them see you despair."

Her throat was too tight to make a sound. She was angry with her father, with her husband, with her life. She wanted to punch Gregory in his eye. No one had stopped any of it. She had not wanted to marry the old king, nor be taken from West Francia. She had not wanted to marry the young king, and she had not wanted him to drag her so close to a battle.

Another thud against the door made some of the people in the hall cry out, and this time Gregory was among them. Judith let her tears run freely as she sniffled and sobbed. She could hear shouting from the outside and saw the men at the door pull back the bar.

"THE KING IS DEAD! WE ARE LOST!" shouted the Wessex knights from outside.

Peasants started screaming and surging, some running in circles waving their arms above their heads as panic took them. Judith gripped Gregory's cassock and he put his arms around her, ducking to the side of the hall and squeezing her through the madness that was breaking out all around them. They made it to the door, but everyone was trying to get out, and her rank suddenly made no difference. Gregory shielded her with his body, but she was still scraped against the old, splintered wood of the doorframe. She heard the ring of iron weaponry clanging so close that she thought they might have taken off Gregory's head, but he was still moving, still holding her, shielding her under the tarp of his cloak.

She could hear men dying, but the sound of it seemed to filter through her brain and she heard instead the high, sad sound of the peasant girl's song, a song of war and death and pain and sorrow. She ran, barefoot, through the wet grass, and she could hear them shouting, but in her mind, it was just the girl reaching the crescendo of her song. The song set the pace for her feet and she hurried, several steps for every beat, under the shelter of Gregory's cloak. A warm spray of blood flew over her face, but she did not look up, nor could she look down as her feet slipped on the wet grass. 'It is only dew,' she told herself. 'I am not walking on blood.'

Judith realized that the wild men, so feared by her captors, had become her liberators. A smile tugged at her lips as the song continued to reel through her mind while Gregory lifted her into a saddle. There was no time for a second horse, so he climbed up and sat behind her and dug his heels into the horse's flanks.

The gray mare called out as it ran under the weight of two people, but Gregory did not let it slow down. He knew that the wild men were the boatmen from the North. He had seen them in Pairs before and he knew the terrors of which they were capable. They preferred to subdue their enemies with fear, so their deeds were unnecessarily gruesome, and the tales became more so with each telling. Gregory did not know what they would do if they found Judith, so he pressed the horse until they were out of sight of the hall and well into the woods, where he was compelled to slow down or risk laming the animal and breaking both of their necks.

"Where are we going?" Judith gasped, when she finally dared to make a sound.

"South."

"But the king is dead! I can go home now! The river is north!"

"There will be boatmen at the river. It will not be our port today."

"Then where?" she demanded to know.

Gregory had to put his plans together in that moment. "We will go to Dorset, and from there, the continent."

"The trader ships in Dorset will never let me leave! That is Aethelbald's childhood home."

"We will give them the news that their sovereign is now the next brother in line. Young Aethelbert is kinder than his brother, and perhaps he will make a better, more just king."

"I will not be his wife to find out!" she insisted.

"No, my lady, you are a princess of the continent and you should return there, to your silken clothes and fine music."

"I miss music. I hate the sound of the harp. I hate the sound of the Saxon language. I hope that I never hear it again."

"Anything you wish, my lady," Gregory promised. "Your father will be so pleased when we get you home."

The song of the peasant girl still sounded in her ears. It seemed to ring off the rocks and trees around them. She closed her eyes and thought about her father, smiling at the memories that she had of him, and of the last time that she had felt safe.

Gregory got off the horse and lead it by the bridle, letting Judith remain in the saddle, and from her vantage, she saw them before Gregory heard the noise on the path ahead of them.

"Men," Judith whispered.

Gregory stopped the horse. There were several men, an entire legion, coming down the path in front of them. Their depth was concealed by the foliage, but the sound of them was great.

"Don your hood, my lady," he whispered.

She pulled her hood down over her face as the men came closer, looking at her curiously.

"Ho!" the man in the lead called out to them. "We are friends," he said, a bright smile on his face.

"The Lord bless you, then." Gregory nodded in return.

"Thank you, Father, and may the Lord keep you as well."

"Do not talk to them," Judith hissed.

"Are you men on a holy quest?" Gregory asked.

"Not that, Father," the man in the lead answered. "But to bend our knee to the new king. You are coming from the north. Did you see any of the battle near Winchester?"

"We came from Wales," Gregory lied. "This girl is a leper, to be taken to my monastery on the Isle of Jute."

The man took a step away from Judith's mare.

"What do you mean, 'the new king'?" Gregory asked.

"A battle to the north this morn," the man explained. "King Aethelbald has fallen, may God rest his soul. His brother marches with a great army to Winchester. We hope to meet him there and add any blades we have to his army."

"It happened this morn?" Gregory asked. "How is it that you come to know already?"

"A rider took out as soon as the king hit the ground, may God be merciful."

They all crossed themselves, and Gregory closed his eyes and pretended to pray for the late king, but he could not yet bring himself to do it, so he apologized to God instead, for having such a hard heart.

"Are you making camp?" Gregory asked. "The wolves are about, and dusk grows. We would be thankful to add our fire to yours."

"You must camp at the edge." The man glared at the form under the cloak. "We will have no illness."

"Of course not," Gregory promised. "I will keep her away."

Judith kept her head down as Gregory lead her horse through the throng of people and to the rear, where the ground had been churned by all their marching feet. The men around them laid out bedrolls and lit their fires, and Gregory found a suitable place away from them.

"What a disgusting lie to tell," Judith complained when they were out of earshot. "You could have thought of something better."

"You can rest easy tonight, my lady," Gregory told her. "None of these men will bother you."

The old bishop set up a tent and built a fire, and the young widow laid down to watch him pray. She woke every time one of the men got up in the night or if a sentry walked near, but Gregory was right, none of them bothered her. In the morning, Judith woke to see Gregory bent over the fire, mixing a concoction in a small, wooden bowl.

"I do not have to drink that anymore," she said. "I will never lie with another man again. Ever."

"You may have noticed, my lady, that some things happen without us planning them. Drink it until we get you home."

Judith plugged her nose and upended the bowl, then handed it back to him. She crossed herself and said a prayer asking God to forgive her, as Gregory had taught her to do. The medicine was the greatest sin she had ever committed, and it was her bishop who brewed it for her. It was a sin against God to control conception, but she was glad that she did not have Aethelbald's children. She spat on the ground at the thought. 'I would have left them behind,' she thought, bitter in her heart.

By the time they reached civilization, she had slept on the ground for two nights, and she had to trade one of her jeweled rings for food. They continued to Dorset in that manner, moving between towns and small, one-family huts. By the time they made it to their destination, they were mud-covered and pathetic. Judith was out of jewels, but Gregory still had the horse to trade for passage on a ship.

The passage was dreadful, and the hull stank. They had to stay below because the winds and sea would have blown people off the deck, so Gregory fought for a place under the stairs and sat Judith there so she could get a gasp of fresh air and sometimes a glimpse of the stars. They could not use the story about her being a leper or they would not have been allowed on the ship, instead they were mysterious, and the other passengers were curious, but Gregory shunned them, and Judith ignored them.

The crossing of the channel could take as little as two days, or as long as two weeks, depending on the weather, the current, and the captain's abilities. The passage home took a long time, more than a week. There was no sweeter moment in their lives than the landing at Calais, where Judith was the first up the ladder with Gregory right behind her, knocking peasants out of the way lest they lay their dirty hands on her.

"Make way for Princess Judith!" he insisted. Now that they were home, he felt it safe to reveal her. "Shall we send for the women of the hall?" Gregory asked as he climbed the galley ladder. "They could attend you before you see your father."

"My father will see me as I am!" Judith insisted, popping her head out of the hull and into the sweet blue sky of her homeland. "After everything that I have endured at his command, at the least he will look upon my wretchedness."

The people near enough to hear them stared openly, but most of the international travelers on the docks paid them no mind at all. Gregory commanded a man off his horse in order to requisition a ride for Judith, but the man looked at their soiled clothing and laughed. Gregory's own clothes were filthy, and Judith wore the cut of cloth of the Wessex noble, which was less than peasant garb in the fashionable kingdom of West Francia. Despite their pained feet and rumbling bellies, Gregory and Judith walked to the church, which was the nearest large building to the docks, looking for someone who might listen to their story.

"We will see your abbot," Gregory informed the monk who answered the door. "You might not recognize her, but this woman is the daughter of King Charles. This is Judith, Princess of West Francia, and Queen of Wessex."

The monk looked doubtful, but he dared not question them. Travelers came in many forms and had varied identities, and a large church like Calais had seen them all. The monk took them to a comfortable waiting room, where several other people were also waiting to see the abbot.

"This is how royalty is received," grumbled Gregory.

"Only when they are dressed like commoners, as we are," Judith whispered, and gave her most lady-like smile to the people in the waiting room. Lords and ladies moved away from the terrible smell of her, and a few of them were called in to see the abbot, but they were far between, and Judith's stomach began to gnaw at her. She was about to give up hope, then they were called.

The abbot was an old man who recognized Judith as soon as he saw her face. "My lady! My dear lady!" Abbot Stephen stumbled over himself as he called to the servants. "Bring food for the princess, and blankets and clothes!"

"We require horses, Father." Judith spoke as she accepted a wedge of cheese and a loaf of bread from a servant.

"I will take you to the stables myself," the abbot offered.

Gregory and Judith ate what little their bellies were able to hold, and Gregory happily accepted a new cassock, but Judith refused the abbot's offer of clean clothes.

"I know that they are not fashionable," Abbot Stephen muttered, "but, uh …"

He looked over the filthy, simple dress that Judith was wearing, but she did not seem to notice his disapproval. She led the way out of the abbey and into the courtyard, and she was dazzled again by the brilliance of the sunlight of her homeland. She felt like she had been living under a cloud in Wessex, and it had melted away. A fluttering caught her eye and she looked toward the main hall of the town, where the king's standard was waving and snapping in the breeze.

"God brought us here on this day specifically," Judith said. "We were meant to find the king when we landed. There he is!"

They rode borrowed horses and clattered through the streets of the city and into the courtyard of the hall.

"Make way! Make way for Princess Judith! Daughter of King Charles! Make way!"

Peasants scattered, and doubtful guards stepped aside. Judith urged her horse through the doorway, making a grand entrance, but looking so ragged that she should have been ashamed. Her hair was knotted and filthy, and she was only a shadow of the healthy girl that had left four years ago. Her horse thundered into the throne room, pushing the announcer and several surprised guards out of its way. She looked as wild as any Saxon, so wild that she startled Alfred, who was sitting at the supping table with the rest of the important people of the court.

Charles stood up and his guards drew their swords. The diners gasped, cried, or held their breath.

"It is I, Father!" Judith announced. "I have escaped war-ravaged lands and returned home, and I will not go back to the Saxons EVEN IF YOU SAY THAT YOU WILL CUT MY THROAT!" She was screaming at the last of her words. She leapt from her horse, unaided, and strode along the table to stand across from her father, whose guards looked at one another, unsure.

"My darling!" Charles furrowed his brow. "Judith?"

"The same. I am the same girl that you sold to an old man, and after he died, I was TAKEN. I was a maiden when the young king took me, and still a child!"

"The young king was never contracted with you. I was outraged when I received your letter."

She shook her head, tears spilling over her cheeks. "Two years gone. Aethelbald had me for TWO YEARS! And he kept me like a prized horse! Some stock animal to be used at his pleasure!"

Charles flushed with embarrassment. "This is not the venue …"

"Them?" She waved her arm at the audience in the chamber. "All gossips and liars! Why should I care what they think? You sold me away and then you forgot about me!"

"I have not! I hold the king's youngest brother hostage." He pointed to Alfred. "If you were mistreated then you may mistreat HIM."

She did not look at Alfred. All the fine courtly manners were gone from her. All the lessons she had taken in dance, and the proper style of eating, in languages, and poetry, she had forgotten. She was wild, like the island that had been her home.

Charles leaned over his table and took her by the shoulders, despite the terrible smell of her. "My dear," he sighed. "I have missed you."

The king's eyes turned on Alfred, and there was a glower of menace behind them.

Judith tried to control her sobbing. "God has watched over me." She sucked in a few ragged breaths. "God has delivered me from my husband and let me escape. God has cut him down with the blade of a pagan and I am free by HIS will!"

"King Aethelbald is dead?" Charles asked, shocked.

She nodded, looking down at the edge of the banquet table with tears filling her eyes.

"God will always watch over you, my child. You are of the most royal blood in the world, and the great Lord would never allow harm to befall you. Go to chambers now, and rest."

Several women poured forth to gather Judith in their arms and shuttle her away from the eyes of the court. Charles turned to Alfred.

"Lord of Wessex. Approach."


	23. Chapter 23

Merovich stood behind Alfred as the young lord faced King Charles. Wulfheard was close by as well, but Alfred knew that with Judith home, the king had nothing to lose by killing him. He stood up straight, despite his knees were knocking together. He felt cold, but his hands were sweating.

"Alfred of Wessex," Charles said, and his voice filled the stunned room.

Alfred trembled at the king's voice. Even his own sons were terrified of him, and he loved them. He had little more than disdain for Alfred, and the boy knew it. He could see it reflected in Charles' eyes as the dark-haired, sharp-nosed Franconian king looked down at him, as if he were making up his mind.

Charles took a deep breath, then looked away from Alfred. "Go back to your homeland on the next tide."

Breath rushed out of Alfred's lungs. "Yes, your highness," he managed to whisper. He went back to his chair and sat down, his mind reeling. He watched and listened to the rest of the evening through a blur and haze of disbelief. He could not allow himself to get excited just yet, expecting to be tricked and murdered instead of released.

That evening, Alfred packed his things, leaving almost everything behind because he knew that his father would not like to see him in continental clothing. He paused, remembering that his father was dead. He closed his eyes, crossed himself, and prayed for the old king's soul, while holding out hope that the news had all been lies, and his father was really warming himself by a fire in Chippenham, waiting for him to return. He prayed to find his mother still fair, and his brothers living in peace. He waited for an axe to fall on his neck as he rode to Calais, to a waiting ship. He looked behind himself, and Merovich was still watching him. He calculated that the death blow would occur just before he was able to board. But when Alfred dismounted his horse, Merovich remained seated.

Alfred looked to his bodyguard and cleric, dismounting and gathering their possessions from the saddle bags. Alfred stroked the neck of his horse and the beast nuzzled him. Alfred glanced nervously back at Merovich, who was still astride his mount, and now much taller and more menacing. Alfred leaned close to his horse's ear.

"I will not see you again after this day," Alfred whispered to the beast. "But you have been a good friend, and it pains me to leave you behind. No one should ever be left behind. I hope that you find Wisigard and become her steed. And if you ever see my dear Cloud, give him a nuzzle as well."

He pulled a ripe apple from his pouch, fed it to the horse, and gave it one last pat on the neck before he turned toward the docks. He considered checking on Merovich again, but he did not look back. Alfred walked as bravely as he could to the gang plank, where he was flanked by Wihtred and Wulfheard. Over the plank of wood and onto the deck, he believed for the first time that he had fully survived his time on the continent. When the ship launched and Merovich was left behind, Alfred began to accept his fortune. He wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and kept his eyes on the small, white dot on the horizon. Britain. His home.

The ship took three days to cross the channel. The small white dot grew reassuringly larger until buildings could be seen along the shore. It did not look as he remembered. He closed his eyes and tried to recall. Alfred could remember the continent drenched in sunshine; white sunlight in Rome glittered on white marble, and the sunlight in West Francia had been golden yellow, permeating the Parisian Hall during all hours of the day. By contrast, gray skies covered the Thames Estuary and stretched over an expanse of swampy marshes on either side, and a shrouding mist whirled around them and intermittently concealed the riverbanks. They were so far away from the home of the sun that the late afternoon light brought only an eerie green glow to the gray land.

Thick mist coiled around Alfred's boots and dampened his hair as they followed the Mercian bank, gliding toward the docks of the great city of Lundene. He shivered beneath his heavy coat, which was made up of long sections of red and blue silken weave, stuffed with warm wool and sewn together to create a doublet with a skirt that touched the toes of his boots and covered his arms. His boots were made of supple calfskin, waterproofed with animal fat and padded with wool, but he was still cold.

"There is one of your brothers, waiting on the hill." Wihtred pointed, kindly coaxing. "Do you see the red and orange sigil?"

"The House of Wessex," Alfred whispered.

He looked up at Wihtred's kind, round face and tried to derive comfort from the young bishop's familiar eyes and gleaming bald head. Wihtred was smiling encouragingly, but Alfred was trembling inside. He looked at the line of mounted men, but he could not make out their faces. He knew that his brother would look like himself, because all the old king's sons looked like the old king. He knew that his brother would have clear blue eyes, heavy brows, chestnut colored hair, and a straight, aristocratic nose. He thought that he would know his brothers when he saw them, whether it was his seventeen-year-old brother, the new king, or his fifteen-year-old brother, who had recently been named prince and heir.

The ship docked and the men who had watched from the hill began to make their way down the road, scattering peasants as their horses came through. Alfred watched them approach, his heart weighted with dread, guilt, and fear.

Wulfheard crossed to the docks first, checking the safety of the board before he turned to watch Alfred follow. The aging bodyguard's white hair twisted in the wind of the port, and his deep blue eyes were on every twitch of his young charge as Alfred stepped onto the board and began to cross. Wulfheard had never accepted the fine weave of Parisian fashion, and his bare arms reached out for Alfred to grab and steady himself as he inched across the plank and jumped to the dock, falling into the bear-fur vest that Wulfheard wore. Wulfheard whisked him away from the water easily, even though he was old, and wore three heavy iron swords strapped to his back and hips.

The horsemen stopped before the wood of the dock and the noble in the lead dismounted. He was older than Alfred, but only by a few years. He wore the finest of British wear, which was rough, and simply dyed. His steel hung from his belt, well-forged and probably well-used, but the hilt was not glittering like the weapons of even the lower lords of West Francia.

"God be praised," the noble announced. "Our little brother has finally returned home."

"Aethelred?" Alfred had no memory of his brothers, so he named the brother closest to his own age.

"Your hair is very straight," observed Aethelred, whose own brown hair was oiled into slicked-back waves.

"Bonjour." Alfred stepped forward, nervously taking Aethelred by the shoulders.

Confused, Aethelred was looking at Wihtred with wide and questioning eyes as Alfred planted a kiss on his right cheek. He was about to dip in and kiss the other side when Aethelred shrugged him off.

"Ugh!" He wiped the kiss from his face. "You are not in Paris anymore," Aethelred scolded him. "We should get you changed as quickly as possible. You look prettier than half the girls in Wessex, so do not kiss anyone else!"

Alfred blushed. His brother turned abruptly away from him and walked up the docks to the waiting line of horses. Pages hurried forward to help the nobles into their saddles. Alfred felt mismatched on his mount. While all the other men wore the banners of the House of Wessex and their horses were dressed in kind, Alfred appeared a delicate porcelain doll on his stomping, snorting beast.

"Do you think you can handle him?" Aethelred gestured to Alfred's horse.

"I can ride better than you," Alfred predicted.

Aethelred scoffed. "We shall see."

Alfred was ready for a race, but Aethelred only set a steady pace out of the city, leading the guards in a ragged line behind them. Alfred could not help but think that the Carolingian soldiers would have been marching straight and even, horses stepping in time. Alfred looked back at the Saxons, including his brother, and thought they were very unimpressive.

The Great Bridge of Lundene loomed in the heavy fog beyond the lean-to houses that lined the street. Alfred knew about the bridge, not because he had ever crossed it, but because it was a legend. When he was a small boy, he loved to hear the tales of how the bridge had been built by giants, but now all the fantastic fairy tales he had once believed were long gone, swept away by the seriousness of the world. It had been the reigning Romans, hundreds of years before, who had created various stone works and wooden bridges throughout the island, then, five hundred years before Alfred was born, the Roman Empire began to collapse, and the men who had controlled the southern half of the island for so long, got into their boats and abandoned it.

The royal parade crossed over the bridge and walked through mist so thick that Alfred could barely see his horse's head until they were back on solid ground, and several lengths away from the river. They marched into the first Wessex town, a place called Southwark, which had no port, and was far less impressive than Lundene. The small town was crowded, muddy, and the buildings were all leaning in different directions. It was a place often dependent on the large city across the bridge for supplies, and it housed a great deal of workers, some Mercian and some West Saxon, all poor.

The people stood silent among the billows of mist to watch the armed men ride through their streets. They did not cheer, as Alfred had seen the Franciscans cheering for King Charles. Alfred also remembered that even though the people cheered for Charles, they had not come to his aid when he was invaded. Alfred preferred the silent stares of the Saxon peasants over the false adoration of the Franciscans toward their king.

Southwark had a hall along the river, several furlongs away from the noise and smell of the town. The long, wooden structure materialized out of the mist and its shape reminded Alfred of his time in King Ludwig's East Francia.

Alfred startled when he heard a trumpet blowing, two blats from the hall to announce royalty. He took a deep breath, trying to remind himself that he was home now, and safe. He saw children running through the field at the bottom of the hill. They had a flag that they were trying to steal from one another. One of the bigger boys caught the flag without much trouble and the others chased after him, then the flag was stolen by a quick, sly boy, and the chase continued.

Servants crowded the door of the hall, mostly men, but there were a few women who came away from their outdoor fires and looms, fidgeting with their aprons as they bowed to greet the nobles. The noise of the children's laughter rolled up the hill and to his ears, until Alfred stepped into the dim-lit great hall, which muffled the sound.

"Some fresh clothes for our brother Alfred!" Aethelred's voice echoed through the cool space.

Alfred liked the sound of his name when it was said by a Saxon tongue, and he like being home. He had to trade his fine silks and cotton weaves for rough-spun, and he gave up his silk leggings for woolen hose. Alfred buckled his seax around his waist and gripped the wooden handle as the glittering colors of Paris were boxed away in a trunk, but Aethelred wrapped him in a great coat woven in the colors of Wessex and they walked outside together.

Crickets sang in the rushes of the hall and Alfred smelled meat roasting in the yard. He had not eaten since he broke his fast on dried biscuits that morning on the ship, and the smell of fresh food made his stomach growl and churn. Alfred found that he was trembling, partly with hunger, but he was also nervous. The servants were at their tasks, but they were all stealing glances at him. The children watched him openly, and the guards, who had little else to do, were leaning against trees or walls, nudging one another and nodding their heads in his direction.

Stars pierced the east, and in the west, the summer sky was radiant with the gold glow of the lowered sun. The landscape was growing dim but for the fires that blazed in stone hearths between the buildings of the vill. The largest fire was the cooking pit of the great hall.

Near the cooking pit was the next largest fire, and Alfred followed his brother there, where they sat down on thick blankets and leaned back against a log, which had been covered for them with cured deer hides. Alfred saw Wihtred, but the more-important men crowded close to the nobles and pushed the cleric from Alfred's side.

Servants brought bowls made of hard bread, filled with a thick white sauce and chunks of eel. After the nobles and the men at the first fire were served, the guards and working men were fed. After which, the servants gave some of the leftovers to the women and children, but there was not enough for everyone.

Alfred watched as the peasants stood patiently, even after the last of the stew had been scraped from the cauldron. Their patience was rewarded when the servants brought out baskets of apples for the next course. Alfred munched his apple, which was so small that he thought at first that he was looking at a basket of large cherries. Everything was different here, where they lived elbow-to-elbow with the poor, unlike the royals of West Francia, where filthy commoners were kept beyond the wall.

Servants cut meat from a carcass above the spit and laid a slab onto Alfred's trencher. A woman followed, ladling a bubbling gravy over the meat, which further softened the bread underneath. The only seasonings were salt and onions, and everything tasted bland to Alfred's advanced palette. When the meat and gravy ran out, the lesser members of the house were given black bread. Alfred noticed a boy his own age, dressed in rags, watching other people eat. He looked down at his bread trencher full of meat and bland gravy.

"You there," Alfred called out.

Aethelred looked over at him, one eyebrow raised, surprised because he had barely heard a word from Alfred since he landed.

The peasant boy was afraid, but he got up and walked to the young noble and knelt in front of him. "My lord," the boy said, looking Alfred in the eye.

"Take this." Alfred handed over his dinner. "I find myself full."

"My lord, this is …"

"Take it, please," Alfred pushed the food into the boy's hands. "It is quite good, but my journey across the channel has left me feeling ill."

"Thank you, my lord." The boy's eyes rimmed red with tears.

"What is your name?" Alfred asked.

"I am Uther, if it please you, ser."

"Uther, go and eat your dinner."

The boy scampered away, and Alfred could feel Aethelred staring at the back of his head.

"The convention would be," Aethelred told him, "to offer the food to men closer to your rank. First up, then down, unless there is some sort of alliance, or special favor that you are angling toward."

"He looked hungry."

A plump woman came away from the cooking fire with blackberry tarts, giving them to the nobles first, and the sweet dessert stained Alfred's fingers and lips as he devoured the sugary snack. He leaned back to watch the people of his homeland going about their lives, while the stars popped out of the darkened night sky above him. They were the same stars he had seen in West Francia, and he marveled that they did not change, no matter how far he traveled. He reflected that he was home, and alive, and no longer under the threat of Merovich, even though he had a creeping feeling that the Franciscan guard was lurking in the dark. He pushed the thought out of his mind and listened to the voices around him. He was not listening to the words, just the sound of Saxon being spoken. Women were talking a little farther away and the lilt of their voices made him feel nostalgic as they called their children out of the oncoming darkness.

"Come, Alfred." Aethelred laid a hand on his shoulder. "We had better get some rest."

They led the household into the hall to lie down in the red glow of the lowered hearth fires. Alfred watched his brother pull his cloak around his shoulders as he settled into the straw. There were no bedchambers for privacy, nor pallets for comfort. Alfred laid shivering beside the fire as others found their sleeping places on the ground. He was awake most of the night, listening to the sounds of everything. The horses stomped and snorted at one end of the house, dozing near the fires, and dogs scratched out their beds. Couples found one another in the dark, and the snoring of an old guard was interrupted by the middle-of-the-night cry of an infant. The house was full of people, families, and life. Alfred did not know when he fell asleep, but the following morning Aethelred woke him.

Aethelred commanded the men to their saddles and, though only a handful of men had been with Aethelred when he greeted Alfred in Lundene, a considerably greater number of troops were preparing to escort them out of Southwark. Alfred counted fifty-five men including himself, then took his place next to his brother as they plodded in silence for most of the day. The convoy broke twice for meals and found a campsite in the downs just as evening was coming on.

"The Elderman of Chippenham is Lord Hogarth," Aethelred informed as they laid out deer hides. "And his heir is Aethelnoth, a boy who is my age. King Aethelbert will meet us at Chippenham and may already be there waiting."

Aethelred accepted a skewer of coney and tore into the hot meat, loudly sucking the juices from his fingers. Alfred looked at his own skewer; chunks of meat between small onions. He bit delicately into an onion while the men around him tore into their food like starving wolves.

"Will our sister be there?" Alfred asked.

"What?" Aethelred glanced up, annoyed at having his meal interrupted.

"Aethelswith," Alfred insisted. "Will she also be at Chippenham?"

"Aethelswith has been wed to the King of Mercia for two winters. She may even be old enough to have issue by now, I do not know."

"How long has it been since you last saw her?"

Aethelred shrugged and continued eating.

Alfred yearned to ask about their mother. Had she wanted him when she died? Had she looked for her youngest son in a fevered delirium and cried because he was not there? And their father, who had passed, could he have been poisoned? Did anyone ever check? Did they ask Aethelbald before he fell to a pagan's blade? It was a comfort to be home but being back in Wessex brought forth the questions of his past, and so many people were already dead, killed under the weight of the gloom of the Isle of Britain.

Gwald, a tall, muscled bodyguard, came to sit beside Aethelred. "You did well today," the older man muttered. "You must always remember, when you are leading men …"

Alfred realized that Gwald was Aethelred's mentor in the way the Wihtred was his. Aethelred had become the heir of Wessex, as the seventeen-year-old king, Aethelbert, had no children. That night, Alfred drifted off to sleep feeling the motion of rocking ships and walking horses, ever moving, never reaching their destination. Questions swam through his mind, but they all went unanswered, and the following day they woke to rain. They were up early and still a full day's ride from Chippenham and Alfred's first audience with King Aethelbert.

The rain was coming down in large, fat drops, and the horses plodded through the ruts of the road, their breath turning to white vapor before their noses. Alfred kept his head down and trusted the horse to take him where the others were going. He was shivering by midday, and thoroughly miserable before he heard the trumpets blow, and he prayed that they had reached the Hall of Chippenham, though any vill would do to get them out of the rain. The creaking of large wooden doors oriented him, but Alfred could barely discern the gray outline of the hall in the silver downpour.

He heard the clink of weaponry and the snorting of horses before he saw the shapes coming out of the darkness of the inner hall. Alfred felt dogged and worn from the weather that day, and he was eager to get inside. Instead, Aethelred stopped them, and they waited outside with the rain soaking them to their bones.

King Aethelbert rode to them with twenty guards. Alfred could see his crown sparkling in the gray light, throwing flashes of blue, red, and green gems from the golden circlet under his gray hood.


	24. Chapter 24

Beneath their steadily dampening cloaks, the king and the guards were dressed in red and orange. To Alfred, they looked wild, their weapons went un-bejeweled, their clothes made of rough-spun, and their horses trotted in a ragged, uneven line.

"God be praised! My brother and heir!" King Aethelbert called out. "How fare your travels? Well, I hope."

"We have had no cause for concern, God be praised," Aethelred told him.

"We will have an extra prayer to thank Him for the safe return of our youngest brother, Alfred. But you have grown!"

Through the rain, and Alfred's soaked hood, he could see a smile on his older brother's face, but the gray haze of the wet, cold day, along with the shadow of the king's hood, left the details of his face to Alfred's imagination. Alfred tried to remember his father, but only silhouettes moved in his mind.

Aethelbert turned and led the procession to the tall-gabled hall where they rode their horses inside before dismounting. Alfred gave the care of his steed to one of the many boys scurrying about and followed his brother and the higher lords as they walked through the hall.

"I regret that I was unable to greet you at the port, little brother," Aethelbert said as he walked. "We had short warning of your arrival but know that the entire kingdom rejoices at your safe return."

Alfred glanced around. No one appeared overjoyed to see him.

Aethelbert took them to the fire in the center of the long hall. The Hall of Chippenham was much like that at Southwark, a long, windowless room with doors at both ends and small partitions along both long walls, like shallow stalls, where people were working, or things were being stored. The Chippenham hall was much larger than Southwark and housed many more families and animals. Children scurried before the royals, carefree, and Alfred envied them.

The men settled around the fire where the air was smokey and thick. Servants brought clean, dry clothes, and they changed, bearing their chests to the warmth of the flickering hearth before pulling dry linen shirts over themselves, which hung long enough that they could then stand up and slide the wet clothes down the rest of the way, including woolen stockings and leather shoes, without showing anything but their bare legs. Alfred did as his brothers did, noting that he was the only one in the group who had no hair on his chest, and he was grateful when he was fully clothed again. Being forced to change in front of a house full of people was the stuff of nightmares, and he fumbled and blushed.

A servant brought out a bladder of ale and the king took a drink, then passed the bladder to Aethelred. Alfred was the third in the group to be offered a drink. There were no glass goblets as he had seen in Rome, nor jeweled cups as in Francia. Even the king drank straight from the bladder when he could have called for a wooden cup. Alfred turned the ale to his lips and drank. It was tasteless, with an undertone of bitter. He thought about the spiced wines he had known, wines so deep in color that they were purple. The differences between the continent and his homeland were stark, Alfred thought as he passed the bladder to a servant so that it could be taken to the next man. As he watched the bladder of ale go to the next most-important man, he saw that the man was giving him a reproachful look, apparently offended that he had not been recognized.

With the company dried and refreshed, Alfred could feel some warmth returning to his veins, the servants brought bowls of nuts and berries, serving the king, then his brothers in accordance with their ages. There was plenty of food that evening, but no entertainment, as Alfred would expect in the court of King Charles. He looked for a harp, or a man dressed as a singer, but all in the Hall of Chippenham were warriors, sharpening their blades as they grumbled to one another.

"Aethelbert, my king and brother," Alfred interrupted.

Aethelbert turned to his youngest brother. "So, you CAN speak!"

The men around the king chuckled, a deep murmur that trickled through the company crowded around the fire.

"I …"

"Please, Alfred, I am your brother. You can say anything that you wish."

Alfred cleared his throat. "I was never told, my lord, how did our departed brother, King Aethelbald, may he rest in peace," Alfred signed himself with the cross, as did everyone else around the hearth. "How did he …"

"In battle," Aethelbert said. "Bravely."

Alfred nodded and looked down. The sound of the fire crackling filled the awkward silence. 

"It was the pagans." A voice broke the thick silence.

Alfred looked at the man whom he could not name, no longer looking reproachful, but sad to be telling the story. Other than the king, he had worn the finest armor that day.

The man continued. "They fell upon Winchester, where the king was staying."

"Your cousin, Theobald," Wihtred whispered to Alfred.

Theobald, who looked remarkably like the old king's sons, but with black hair and dark eyes, shook his head sadly. "We found him there in the field, after it was over. I was riding with the king's heir," he inclined his head in the direction of Aethelbert. "I had retrieved my lord and the army he held in Kent, as King Aethelbald had bade me. We rode back as quickly as our horses could carry us, but the entire house was either slain or fled, and the pagans were deeply entrenched in the walls of the hall. We skirted the hill and checked the fields. Everything was dead. Every man, horse, and hound. The king was far gone, his throat slashed."

Aethelbert dropped his head in his hand, but he did not stop their cousin from telling the story.

"We set a trap for them," Theobald continued. "We set fire to one end of the hall and the pagans had to leave or be consumed with the smoke. They fled out, yelling and flashing their swords. We let them go and they ran north, but that is where King Aethelbert waited, with half of our force. Men from everywhere in the kingdom were still flocking in to swear themselves to our young king, and we drove into the back of them while they met Aethelbert head on. We tore them to pieces, not one was left alive."

"We came too late," Aethelbert said, looking into the fire. "I had hoped to save the king's life. We feared that Judith had been killed, and perhaps burned by the fire that we had set to the hall, as we did not find her. I was afraid that without her to trade for you, we might never see you again. It was a great relief when I heard from my men in Dorset that she had boarded a ship. They did not know that it was her at the time, but she left a trail of royal jewelry from Winchester to the southern docks. And Cnut, the stable master at Wareham, recognized their horse when it was brought there. It belonged to Elderman Harold, of Winchester, who perished in the same battle that took the life of our king. Our brother.

"There was still no word of you. Not until a small boat landed in the harbor to say that there was a ship from Francia. We have not had trade with the continent since the deposition of our father, may he rest in peace." They all crossed themselves. "Word of your landing reached us promptly, and Aethelred was near enough to Lundene to escort you, but were times different," Aethelbert swore, "you would have been met with a parade.

"I cannot tell you how we suffer, brother, under the oppression of these monsters from the ice-lands. Some say they are descendants of giants, and they are indeed large, even from the back of a horse. They do not ride well, however, so we are always swifter, unless they reach their boats. They can circle the whole of the island in a long summer day."

"They are wicked," Wihtred agreed. "Sent from Satan. Not even he would have them, so he banished them to the ice. But there they starved and died, so they came south, to the continent, to us, to raid our monasteries and pillage our vills. They are the purest evil on the Earth. May God have mercy on us."

"The monasteries?" Alfred could not believe what he was hearing.

"Ah, Alfred," Theobald humored. "Since the first time a hundred years ago when they took all that was in Lindisfarne, our devout houses have been a favorite target."

"Why do we not guard them?"

"That would be an affront to God," Wihtred explained, lowering his voice. "A monk does not pick up a sword. It is more godly for him to lay down his life."

"But …" Alfred shook his head.

Wihtred furrowed his eyebrows, which meant that they would talk about the matter later. Alfred sat back to ponder everything that he had learned, to take in the faces of his brothers and cousin while he listened to the rain pour over the roof. The hours dwindled, and the conversation contained lulls, and the men started to get comfortable around the fire.

Rain persisted, and Alfred woke in the night when the places near the walls flooded and the servants could no longer sleep there. They put down more straw, but eventually the house crowded toward the center of the room. People did not want to go out to the latrine, so the pots at the far end of the house were filled and stinking. At the other end of the house the smell of closed-in animals added to the pungency. Alfred had a miserable night in his brother's capital, and welcomed the early morning, which brought the end of the rainstorm.

"Today we travel to Aethelney," Aethelbert told Alfred.

"To Aethelney?" Alfred asked.

"It is an island fortress between Wessex and South Wales," Aethelbert said. "We will meet with King Rhodi."

They took their horses outside and Alfred saw that the men who had bedded down outdoors had a far worse night than he had, and he felt ashamed of his inner complaints. They rode out in pairs down the dense wooded trail while the Lord and Lady of Chippenham came outside to bid them farewell. Alfred did not look back as he swayed with the familiar feel of a horse beneath him. He was not concerned about meeting a king. He had met many kings of many different nations. The only thing that did concern him was the sloppiness of his brother's troops. He wished that their armor was shining, he wished that they were traveling in columns. He lamented their haphazard appearance and hoped that the other king would not fall upon them immediately when he saw weakness.

Wihtred rode next to Alfred, and Aethelred had Gwald next to him. Ten soldiers accompanied King Aethelbert, including Theobald, who refused to let the young king out of his sight, and Wulfheard, who was likewise protective over Alfred. Everyone else was sent to Exeter, where the king planned to join them.

They traveled most of the day without breaking. They went through thick forests, and Alfred looked around in the shadows of the woods, unable to shake a slowly creeping feeling of being watched. He bit his lip and urged his horse on as the canopy overhead grew denser and the air around them became warmer within the foliage. Alfred looked at Aethelbert and realized that his brother was not watching the ground. Instead, he was looking up. Alfred looked to the trees and caught the glint of light off a metal object, which them disappeared behind a trunk. Alfred was terrified. He kicked his horse to come even with the king.

"Aethelbert …"

"I know," Aethelbert assured.

Alfred studied Aethelbert's face. He could not recall his father at all, and he convinced himself that Aethelbert was an exact replica. He felt safe and confident next to his brother as the path let out into a clearing, and it was there that Aethelbert stopped and waited.

The tree in front of them rustled, and Alfred's jaw dropped open. He thought for a moment that the tree itself was going to speak, then a pair of men, wearing all green, shimmied down from the branches in front of them. Alfred stared at them, still open-mouthed. They were shorter than most of the people Alfred had known, and they were sinewy, with skin as brown and tough as leather. Green hats finished off their green outfits, which had helped them hide among the leaves.

"I am King Aethelbert of Wessex," Aethelbert informed them. "Take us to Aethelney where King Rhodi awaits."

The green men did not speak but turned away and started walking. Aethelbert dismounted and followed them through the thick underbrush. Aethelred hurried off his horse as did Theobald and Gwald. Alfred was still with surprise as Wulfheard helped him out of his saddle.

The horses were left behind, along with most of the guards, and Alfred went with the others down a path, which led to soft ground. The cattails grew from the marshes on either side, and Alfred's boots squished until they reached a rope bridge. The rope bridge looked abandoned and unused, sagging over a span of water, hazarded with thorn brambles not completely submerged, which would make rafting across the water impossible.

"Are we to cross that?" Alfred whispered.

Wihtred looked uncertain as well, but the small men in green lightly bounded over the rope walkway, barely touching the rope-guardrails on either side. Alfred looked behind them and saw another man standing on a branch in the tree just above them, his hands gripping the branch above his head. He hung there, watching them like a statue carved into the side of a Roman building. There were more green men in the trees behind them, and Alfred looked back to see their faces flit in and out of the leaves like fairies, but he could not tell how many there were. The horses called to them from back in the forest as Theobald, followed by King Aethelbert, stepped onto the rope. Gwald motioned for Aethelred, and then Alfred to go ahead.

Alfred took a shaky step forward and gripped the rough flax guardrails. The entrance of the bridge was shaped like a V, one rope to place one foot in front of the other, and two ropes at shoulder level to hold onto. But the V lost shape as it slacked low in the middle and Theobald slipped down to the center. Aethelbert burned his hands holding onto the ropes so that he did not fall after him. Alfred screamed when the rope bridge swayed and shook, but Theobald managed to get his feet under him. The crossing had been made to look effortless by the green men, who were standing on the other side, watching the progress of their companions.

Alfred held onto the ropes as tight as he could while he walked down into the lowest point of the bridge and the men who were behind him, first Gwald, and then Wulfheard, followed his example. The ropes creaked and swayed, and Alfred was very aware of the bodies pressing close behind him. Everyone was eager to get over the bridge and safely to the other side, but the more of them who piled onto the bridge, the more it swayed. Alfred gulped and forced one foot to move in front of the other. He did not want to freeze and get stuck with impatient men behind him, making the bridge sway. He made it to the center and looked down, noting that the bridge was nearly touching the water. He started climbing up, and his progress was quicker. As Alfred reached the edge, Aethelred pulled him out of the way of the soldiers behind. Alfred waited eagerly for sight of Wihtred and gasped with relief when the bishop stepped off the bridge, last in the line.

"My friend!" Alfred rushed forward to take his arm, and Wihtred smiled and accepted his help. Together, they looked around the marshy island, out of the middle of which rose rock walls with a vaulted, Roman-style roof, which was also made of stone, and covered by tangled vines and leaning trees, making the stonework underneath almost invisible. If he had not been looking for it, Alfred might not have noticed the massive wooden doors before they creaked open. He followed his brothers inside and looked up at the stone ceiling, which was held up by a room full of columns, something he had not seen outside of the Vatican, and he could not believe that it was here in this tiny, concealed place.

"Who is this king?" Alfred whispered

"He owns half of Wales," Wihtred told him. "Through marriage and inheritance. But he is also a great warrior, and he fights the pagans."

Alfred looked at the servants who lined the walls, all dressed in green. He was nervous as he stepped forward to take his place next to his brother, and Wihtred stood behind him, along with Wulfheard, Gwald, and Theobald. One of the green men stepped forward and shouted, so that he had the attention of everyone in the hall.

"Rhodi, son of Merfyn, King of Gwynedd, Powys, and Seisellwg." The announcer's voice bounced off the stone and echoed around them. "And his sons, Gwriad, Anaward, and Cadell."

The royal family entered, dressed a little finer than the green men, but their main color was still green. The king wore a crown of rubies, which caught every fragment of the firelight, and caused flashes of red to dance along the walls.

"Your highness." Aethelbert nodded to the other king, and to his sons in their line, looking very identical and all about the same age. None of them were taller than Alfred, not even King Rhodi.

"King Aethelbert." Rhodi stepped forward and the rubies of his crown sparked blasts of red rays through the dim hall. "Come and sit at my table," he offered.

A squat little table was set out on the floor, and the men either sat or laid down beside it. It was only large enough for Rhodi, his three sons, the King of Wessex, and his two brothers. Bowls of nuts and berries were laid before them as they sat down, and Alfred ate some tangy cranberries. He looked at his brothers, who nibbled casually. No one else in the hall was offered any food, or any place to sit, so Wulfheard, Wihtred, and the rest of the men who had crossed the rope bridge, stood along the walls and waited.

"I thank you for your favor," Aethelbert gestured to the table as servants laid down a roast pheasant. "Your stone hall is quite impressive."

"We will give it to you," Rhodi said.

Aethelred chuckled, but King Aethelbert raised an eyebrow.

"You will … give us this hall?"

"We will give you all of Aethelney," Rhodi told him. "We have common cause against the Ice Men, who have attacked this island fortress before. We are neighbors, and your brother and I were friends."

Aethelbert scoffed. "My elder brother was no friend to South Wales."

"The late king saved us once, and he never knew it," Rhodi told him. "We were under siege by Ice Men, and he laid into them from behind. It gave us a chance to take to the trees and we were never seen by your brother's men, but as we left the field with our lives, we counted him a friend that day."

"What would you ask in return for this beautiful hall?"

"You have a friend with whom I would seek audience," Rhodi said.

"Who would that be?"

"The king of the middle lands, the husband of your sister. Burgred is a cruel man who breaks all treaties. But you, King of Wessex, are known for your … reliability."

"You flatter me," Aethelbert accused, tearing a leg off the roast pheasant.

"This is what I hear," Rhodi shrugged. "But I knew you as a boy. Aethelbald was always headstrong, and you the quiet thinker. I knew that I could bring this matter to you. Did your father ever speak of me?"

"My father remembered you fondly," Aethelbert told him, his eyes cast down. "May his soul rest in eternal peace."

Alfred made the sign of the cross, fervently wishing that he could crawl into his brother's mind and remember their father as well. It seemed to Alfred that the voices around him became deeper and more distant as his memory sifted through the sands of time, trying to uncover his father's face, but he could only see and hear his brother.

"I may have occasion to speak with Burgred," Aethelbert continued. "What would you have me say?"

"Tell him that Rhodi has no wish to fight, not with Wessex, nor Mercia, nor even the Ice Men. The borders are well established and Rhodi's people do not cross the dyke. The men of the middle kingdom should not cross the dyke either. Peace is this simple."

"And for this conversation, you will give Aethelney to Wessex?"

"My dear King Aethelbert." Rhodi flourished his hand as if he were about to embark on a great poem. "Let it be known that Rhodi and his sons desire peace with everyone. A stone hall is a fine thing, my friend, but not as fine as a good neighbor."

Wooden cups were brought out and set before them, and Alfred recognized a Frankish bouquet as he drank his cup of imported wine.

"Your gift is generous," Aethelbert said. "When I speak to my brother-in-law, I will remind him of the border at the dyke, which is your traditional border. But, my dear king, there is no guarantee that I can give you that King Burgred will listen to me."

Rhodi shook his head. "Your nation is greater than the middle kingdom. And the Ice Men press from the north and weaken Mercia. King Burgred needs your friendship."

Aethelbert took a ruby brooch from his own chest and laid it on the table. "For you, my friend. It would befit your crown so well."

Rhodi beamed at the gift. "And you shall also keep all of the goats on the island," he promised. "For the gift that you present to me. You honor me, King Aethelbert."

"All of the goats on the island is a fine gift," Aethelbert said. "For such a gift I must give you a horse. One of my best."

Rhodi waved his hand as he took a drink of wine, his round cheeks flushed pink. "I surely could not accept," he coughed, then took another drink. "The horses of Wessex are famous for being strong and strong-willed. How would I ever tame such a beast?

Aethelbert smiled. "Feed it oats, and it will love you."

The two kings laughed. Alfred listened to the exchange with interest. Goats and a single horse? He had seen kings exchanging purses of gold, bags of pearls, ships, and entire herds of horses, and he remembered when King Charles had given his father a thousand swords. The Island of Aethelney did not seem so great to Alfred, as it was only a tiny, isolated place sinking into its swamp.

More food and more wine were brought in by the servants and as the evening wore on, the younger members of the table fell asleep. Alfred listened to the kings as they concluded the custom of gift-giving, trying not to one-up the other, but both wanting to show how well their kingdom was doing.

It is a sparring match, Alfred thought. A calculated meeting where every word is weighted, and every favor is a statement. Kings can insult one another, accidentally or intentionally, at such a stage of talking. Alfred was reasoning to himself as he laid his head on the table and watched his brother, who was smiling and gesturing, a little louder and more boisterous as the wine flowed. The servants against the wall had gone to sitting, and some were even asleep, but the kings talked into the night.

Rhodi slammed his fist on the table and Alfred woke with a startle, his heart pounding. He remembered the fits of King Charles, and he was afraid of angry kings. But Rhodi was laughing.

"And we killed them all!" the little foreign king said.

The words blurred through the haze of wine that wrapped its way around Alfred's head, making everything foggy. When he woke the next morning, the Rhodi family was gone, and all the servants were gone as well. Even the table, around which they had been sleeping, was absent from the room. The only thing that remained on the misty island of Aethelney was a small herd of goats, lounging in the gray morning.

They crossed the bridge and found Aethelbert's men waiting on the other side.

"When did King Rhodi leave?" Aethelbert asked them.

"We did not see the king," one of the soldiers replied.

Aethelbert looked back to the island. "Is this not the only bridge?"

"Aye, my king."

Alfred looked over his shoulder as they walked through the marshes, away from the haunting island. He hoped he never had occasion to see it, or its swinging bridge, again.

"Farewell then, King Rhodi." Aethelbert looked up to the trees as he mounted his horse. "Leave one of the pack beasts here. Tie it to a tree."

"My lord?" the guard asked.

"Do it. One of the older ones. They will only eat it anyway." Aethelbert kicked his horse into a walk and started the procession moving to Exeter.


	25. Chapter 25

Alfred opened his eyes in the dark, listening to a crackling fire, but seeing no light. He sat up and looked around, but he could not find his brothers. He was in a cell again, and cold eyes watched him from the hall.

"I told you," came the disembodied voice of Merovich.

Alfred looked at the eyes that watched him, deep and soulless, glowing from the darkness like the hungry eyes of a wolf. Alfred realized that he was crying. Tears streamed down his face as he gulped for breath. The day had finally come.

"I told you."

"No," Alfred cried. "Please."

"You cannot run from me."

As Alfred watched, the Franciscan guard stood up and crossed the hall, coming into his cell with long fingers and a wicked, curved blade that flashed in the dark.

"No," Alfred cried. "I will be good. Please! Father! Father!"

But then he remembered that his father was dead, and his eldest brother as well. He looked for Wihtred, but the bishop was not there. Merovich came closer, hovering over the ground like a black wraith with no legs. The sharp knife glinted, and Alfred could hear the fire crackling, but he could not see the light.

"No," Alfred sobbed, falling to his knees. "Please! Please!"

"Alfred!" A voice broke through his dream.

"No," Alfred begged. "Please! Please!"

"Alfred!"

Hands were shaking him. Alfred woke with sweat and tears soaking his face. "No!" Alfred cried as he came awake. "Please!"

"Alfred!"

The face of his brother materialized from the confusion of the dream. Alfred could hear the fire crackling and the light shown brightly on King Aethelbert, who was holding him like a babe in mother's arms, sitting up next to the fire. Wihtred stood behind him, a look of pained concern on his face. They were in the woods; Alfred could see the silhouettes of the trees against the ink blue sky. He felt cool air touch his face as he wiped the tears away with the edge of his cloak.

"You are safe," Aethelbert soothed, and smoothed Alfred's mussed hair.

"Aethelbert?"

"Yes, it is your brother. And you are safe."

Alfred looked at Wihtred, who forced a smile. There were many others around, including their brother Aethelred, who all lay still in their places, but they were awake and watching. Alfred was sorely embarrassed and looked down at his brother's chest so that they could not see his face.

"Alfred," Aethelbert spoke gently, and his voice rumbled next to Alfred's ear. "We are near a very special place. Would you like to come with me? I want to show it to you."

Alfred blinked some of the sleep out of his eyes and let his brother help him up. They walked through the trees, and Wihtred, Wulfheard, and Theobald followed them. Alfred was glad that the familiar men were staying close, but so too followed several of the king's guard. Aethelbert guided the young boy across soft ground and protruding tree stumps, which came up sharp and jagged, and were almost concealed by the mist. They raised their hoods as a soft rain pattered the leaves above, and they seemed to walk for a very long time. A clearing gave them better footing, but the rain impaired their vision.

"This is the stone of our grandfather. King Egbert is buried here. This is your kingdom, Alfred."

Alfred did not see the massive stone until they were standing right in front of it. It was a black slab, taller than Aethelbert, and smooth but for the runes that had been scratched into the surface. Aethelbert looked up at the monument as he walked around its edges. Alfred followed, finding that the stone was no thicker than the length of his arm, and it was rough on the other three sides. Alfred reached up to touch it and laid his hands on the dark granite, which was cold and slick with rain.

"Father wished to come here in his later years, but Aethelbald had confined him to Kent. He longed for family more than anything, at the last. He pled with the King of Francia to return you. I believe he wrote a letter every day that you were there, until his death. Leaving you on the continent was his greatest regret, Alfred. And I know, because I was often with him in those last days. Aethelbald did not exile me. Indeed, he named me his heir until a son might be born to him. But I was assigned to watch our father and make sure that he did nothing subversive. He never did. He wanted Aethelbald to have a long and fruitful reign. If only Aethelbald would have spoken to him, at least once, but all the messages that I carried to him never swayed his decision.

"Aethelbald wanted Judith sent back, and wanted you returned, but Father insisted that he could not shame her with a divorce, even though she was a maiden still upon his death. It was Aethelbald who shamed her, and made her father not want her anymore. King Charles wrote to our father that he would not release you because Judith had never been made a proper queen, and after Father's death, she married Aethelbald without Charles' consent. I think he resented them both for that and kept you longer out of spite. Upon Aethelbald's death, the only thought I had was to find the princess and barter her for you. I never would have let her return without first seeing you safely on our shores. God has answered my prayers since the day we found that she had escaped and fled the island.

"In the years gone by, you and I have been only players being moved by kings. Now I am the King of Wessex, and you are home, and safe, where you belong. You are not a captive anymore, but my brother."

Alfred was surprised to learn that his father had contacted King Charles in any way. He looked up at the stone and a few fat drops of rain splattered his face. Tears wet his face as well, but no one could see them in the dark of the early morning.

"I can take you to the graves of our mother and father another day," Aethelbert promised. "Today we will finish our journey to Exeter and meet the noblewoman who I am to marry."

Alfred looked up at his brother and trusted him. They stood in the dark until the sunrise broke through the dreary rain and split the dark clouds above them. When they turned back toward the camp, they found that Aethelred, Theobald, Gwald, Wihtred, Wulfheard, and the other soldiers, were waiting with the horses at the edge of the clearing. The men looked on, drenched and sullen, everyone silent while King Aethelbert settled his youngest brother into his saddle and made sure that the boy had a firm grasp of the reins before he turned to speak with Aethelred.

A shout from the back of the company pre-empted the king's words.

"ATTACK!"

Alfred could see them from atop his horse. They were bearded and fur-clothed, wearing large helms and carrying round shields. One of the pagans bashed a horse with his shield, and the blood and gore from the horse's broken eye pulled away from the beast and stuck to the shield in a long, drooping line. Alfred's horse called and reared in protest of the rushing madness. Alfred saw a soldier get pulled from his saddle and beaten to a quick death with the blunt, heavy, iron weapons that the pagans carried. They swarmed out of the trees and Alfred's heart slowed in its beating as one of the wild men looked up and locked eyes with him.

"Take my brothers!" King Aethelbert shouted.

Wihtred was on his horse in an instant and grabbed Alfred's reins. Gwald did likewise with Aethelred, and they hurried to the thick foliage of the woods while their horses called back, eager to charge into the screaming pitch of battle.

"Aethelbert!" Aethelred fought to take control of his own horse. "No! We have to stay and fight!" He jerked his horse back, pulling the reins out of Gwald's hands, and turned around. His horse called out, and white vapor split the light rainfall that pattered softly on the leaves around them. Aethelred kicked his horse's sides and charged back into the fray.

"NO!" was the only useless word that Alfred had to offer.

Wihtred pulled him into the trees while Gwald rushed to retrieve the wayward Aethelred.

"Wihtred." Alfred's voice was shaking. "We are without a sword between us."

"Shh," cautioned Wihtred.

They could see the fight through the green spring leaves, and Alfred could see Wulfheard among the madness. The old knight was still standing on the ground next to the king, and Alfred squinted and leaned forward to make out the figures in front of them, and to see the enemy that they were fighting.

As he leaned and squinted, a hand lashed out of the damp shadows of the wood and grabbed Alfred by the ankle, nearly unseating him with one pull. Alfred grabbed hold of his saddle. "HELP ME!" he cried.

Wihtred looked over, surprised, and kicked his horse into action. Wihtred's beast galloped around Alfred's horse and wheeled about to ride over the assailant. Alfred looked over his shoulder at the enemy, a hulking, red-haired giant with icy eyes. He said something in his own language before he was overtaken by Wihtred's horse, which trampled him and kicked his face beyond recognition. The horses both reared, surprised by the rapid events. Alfred kept his seat, but his leg hurt.

"We must ride," Wihtred insisted.

Alfred clung to his mount. The rain washed the tears from his face, but his leg throbbed. The sound of the small battle behind them faded as Wihtred pulled the reluctant young noble along, and then they were enveloped by the dense silence of the woods.

"We are lost!" Alfred cried. "God preserve us! Jesus Christ help us!"

"Stay calm, my lord," Wihtred insisted. "Recite the Hail Mary three times."

"Wihtred!" Alfred complained. "My brothers are dying behind us!"

"Hail Mary," Wihtred said.

Alfred took a deep, shaken breath. "Hail Mary, full of grace, our Lord is with thee." His voice trembled. "Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

Wihtred spoke with him and their voices melded together, low and urgent.

"Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death."

Alfred cried, and could not continue.

"This is a deep path," Wihtred whispered as he pulled the reins of Alfred's horse. "This will lead us to water, and water will lead us to people."

Alfred cried, but held his seat as Wihtred kicked his horse into a trot and Alfred's beast followed. They rushed down the path, and branches and thorns whipped their faces. Alfred laid his head down on the horse's neck and it gave him more speed, jumping logs and roots, scaring the wild animals away. As Wihtred predicted, the path led to a downward slope in the landscape, and soon they found a dry stream bed.

"Which way?"

"Go south, my lord," Wihtred said, letting Alfred have the lead.

Alfred turned in his saddle to make eye contact with Wihtred as they hurried in single file along the narrow ditch. "You have seen pagans before?" Alfred asked in a half-questioning, half-accusing tone.

"I have seen what they do, and I have read of it. As have you. The massacre at Lindisfarne, my lord," Wihtred reminded him. "Those were the same people who invade now, the same who sailed up the Seine and stormed Paris, the same that sail to every port in Gaul."

"How can they be the same?" Alfred demanded. "That was a hundred years ago!"

"Fathers beget sons," Wihtred said.

"And what will they do to my brothers?"

"Only God knows what will happen."

Alfred had to turn away from Wihtred to guide his horse as they broke free of the woods and set a serious pace. Wihtred pointed to the distance, and Alfred could see the smoke of a vill beyond the trees. They turned themselves toward it as the horses bellowed and frothed, breathing heavily as they ran up and down rolling hills. The urgent sound of a trumpet blew one blat to announce visitors. The house did not recognize him, and he had no banners. Men-at-arms were mounted and grabbing their weapons when the two riders raced into the courtyard.

"THIS IS ALFRED, BROTHER OF KING AETHELBERT, SON OF KING AETHELWULF! THIS IS YOUR SOVERIEGN NOBLE, ORDAINED BY GOD!" Wihtred called out, raising his hands to get their attention so that they would not attack.

Alfred looked at the frightened, wet faces of the women and children of the vill, and the aggressive features of the men, who all had black hair, dark eyes, and hooked noses. Alfred found them strange and frightening. The air was thick with mistrust and he feared that they would fall upon him and tear him apart before he could prove his identity. Alfred hoped that the glint of his jewelry and the relative cleanliness of his face and hands would help them believe the bishop's claim. He heard comments about the fineness of their horses, and he could almost breath a sigh of relief.

"There is a battle!" Wihtred called out. "The king was surprised by pagans! I am Bishop Wihtred of Canterbury, and I have no weapon, neither does Lord Alfred, who is my charge. Take your horses and your swords and ride to Egbert's Stone!" Wihtred pointed. "You may yet save the life of your king!"

The men looked at one another. Alfred could not understand why they were hesitating. His blood boiled to think that his brothers could be helped while these men stood around, no one talking, just looking.

"TO EGBERT'S STONE!" Alfred found his voice and shouted over the murmuring of the men.

"We should find a place to hide." One of the women called from the gathered crowd. "Before the pagans come here!"

"If the pagans are close, we dare not send our men into the forest!"

Alfred fumed. The men were not charging out. Those who were already mounted held their reins still. He remembered the defiance of King Charles' lords when the Prince of East Francia invaded, and he remembered what King Charles had done to them after he restored his authority. Alfred looked at Wihtred, but the bishop did not know what else to do.

"If you do not ride to the aid of your king!" Alfred pulled his seax from its sheath and held it up to catch the dim sunlight. "Then you and your entire vill will answer for it when my brothers ride out victorious!"

The crowd murmured louder, and he could hear the arguments against him. The pagans had killed the last king, they were telling one another, who knew how many of the murdering savages were among the trees. They were scared.

"GET ON YOUR MOUNTS AND RIDE!" Alfred shouted over them. "TO EGBERT'S STONE BEFORE YOU ARE ALL HANGED FOR TREASON!"

Feeling ashamed that he sounded so much like King Charles, someone who Alfred despised, he looked over the drenched and sullen faces of the people, and they all looked back at him.

"I, Dirk of Selwood, will answer the call of my king!" shouted one of the mounted men, who pulled out his sword.

A reluctant battle cry rose up from the others, followed by more heart-felt shouts of "Selwood!" and "Wessex!" and the men took to their saddles and rode out with what weapons they could muster, some with only pitch forks, and very few of them had horses that were equipped for battle.

"For King Aethelbert!" they shouted, as they raced away from the courtyard.

Alfred lifted his seax into the air. "For Wessex!" he shouted after them. His horse called out to be included, but Wihtred held it back. Alfred also wanted to rush through the trees and see that his brothers were well, but he could feel that his horse was winded, and he knew that another hard run could damage the animal, so he and Wihtred watched the men race across the rolling hills and into the woods while the crowd of women, children, and old men stared at them from their places on the sopping ground, rain deluging their soaked heads.

Wihtred got off his horse and hurried to help Alfred dismount. When his feet touched the ground, pain shot through Alfred's left leg, and the limb crumpled beneath him.

"The lord is hurt!" Wihtred shouted at the women.

"This way, my lord." The most well-dressed woman standing among the mud motioned them. The lady of the house led Alfred, Wihtred, and their horses, into the warm enfold of the hall where Alfred sat down before the main fire. She gave him fresh clothes and new blankets, and he changed in the fashion that he had learned from his brothers, baring his chest for only a moment, and then he was dry in his fresh clothes, and the servants wrapped him in his blankets. He worried about his brothers and wished that they were with him.

"My lord." An elderly man gave Alfred sage water.

"Lord." A young boy brought cranberries.

Alfred accepted the refreshments and drank the water, then handed everything over to Wihtred, recognizing him as the second-most important person in the house. Everyone watched him, and Alfred could feel their eyes boring into him. He worried that if the fathers and husbands of the vill did not return, then the families would blame him. He could feel them judging exactly what they would do to him.

"Have you a Bible, Lady Selwood?" Alfred asked.

"Yes, my lord, we have five scrolls on the far wall. There are five more, but my husband has sent them to the brothers of the monastery for copying."

"Please have your man retrieve one. Bishop Wihtred will read aloud."

"Yes, my lord."

The old man who had brought the sage water took his time in shuffling across the dirt floor, scraping rushes as he walked and releasing deep down odors of animal urine and old food bits that had been packed in the dirt. Dogs followed the old man to see what he would unearth as he went. Alfred thought the sight was funny, but Wihtred furrowed his brow, wanting Alfred to remain rigid and without expression. Alfred understood the bishop's body language, and he turned back, keeping his face frozen while the old man walked back to him in the same fashion, with dogs snapping at one another as they chased his heels.

Wihtred took the scroll delicately. "Some candles, if you would be so kind."

Alfred was glad when the reading began and the people could focus on something other than his own face, or at least he could imagine that they were no longer staring at him. The tension in the building was so thick that Alfred felt like the walls were leaning in on him. He fought down a panic that threatened to rise out of him as he looked to his horse, unsaddled, and behind a closed door. He would never outrun them, should they decide to kill him. The sound of a trumpet broke over the house, echoing into the hills as it called out once, twice, and then they heard the third blat. Alfred jumped up and threw his blanket back.

"My lord!" Wihtred hurried to get up. "Mind your leg!"

Alfred forgot the pain and raced to the door, stopping before a sheet of rain to see the banners of the King of Wessex flying over the horses that raced toward the hall.

"Oh, thank you, God!" Alfred clasped his hands together. "Thank you, God! Thank you, God!"


	26. Chapter 26

Alfred stood back and the servants pulled the doors of the house open to let the soldiers ride in. "Aethelbert!" Alfred threw his arms around the king as soon as he was off his horse. Aethelbert smiled kindly and hugged him in return.

"Where is Prince Aethelred?" Wihtred's question cut through Alfred's relief.

Theobald stepped forward, taking the king's right side. "The prince was sent to speed on his way to Exeter. He expected to find Lord Alfred there as well."

"Gwald was able to pull him from the fight, and that is where I told them to go," Aethelbert said. He looked down at Alfred, surprised to see tears in his little brother's eyes. "What ails you?"

"I ran away," Alfred sniffled. "Aethelred was brave and I was a c-coward." His voice stuck in his throat.

"The men that you sent in your stead were far more effective than would be an unarmed boy and a bishop. Aethelred wanted to help, but he only worried me, and caused two of my men to have to protect him while he and Gwald made their way out. You sent aid when I needed it. You were my savior today, Alfred." He turned to their cousin. "Theobald, take word to Exeter immediately. Let them know that we are here and safe and will travel in the morning. My apologies to the lady whom I have kept waiting. Ask after Aethelred, I pray that he is safe. If he is not at Exeter before you, then find him."

"I am to ride to Exeter tonight?" Theobald asked. "You want me to leave your side? Your highness, I have stated my intentions. I will protect you with my life …"

"You will do as I command you," Aethelbert interrupted. "Go now."

Theobald took two soldiers with him, and Alfred watched them ride out into the gray, wet day, and he remembered to say a silent prayer to thank God for warm fires.

"Did you kill them all, Aethelbert?" Alfred had to ask.

"They are gone, and dead," Aethelbert promised.

The people of the house were quite different in the presence of Alfred's brother, and brought wine and roast duck for dinner.

"My lord's foot must be tended," insisted Lady Selwood, suddenly far more concerned than she had been.

"Are you not well, my lord?" asked Lord Selwood, the man called Dirk who had spoken first in the courtyard.

Alfred looked to his brother, and to Wihtred, who nodded his head, assuring him that his leg did need mending. The old man with hounds scraping at his heels came to put a mud pack on it and Lady Selwood gave him water boiled with willow bark. Alfred relaxed knowing that his brothers were safe, and the heathens were all killed.

The men told stories of the battle, each counting how many he had killed until the number sounded quite impossible. Alfred sat quietly, half-listening, but half-praying for the Wessex men who had been killed that day. He shuddered as the men around him laughed and boasted, and he went to sleep in the rushes around the main fire feeling ill.

His dreams were dark. The dead pagans were trapped in the ground beneath the hall, moaning and writhing under his sleeping place. In his dream he woke to the feel of the ground moving beneath him. Alfred startled awake and sat bolt upright. He was no longer inside the dream. A mouse squeaked and darted through the rushes where he had been sleeping. Alfred looked around in the red, ember light of the dying fire. A servant lumbered toward him, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he made his way with a square of peat to place on the fire.

Alfred watched embers and ashes dance in the air as the servant dropped the peat on the hearth. In his travels, Alfred had become accustomed to the smell of wood fires. The servant moved back to the shadows without a word, and Alfred fixed his eyes on the smoldering peat in front of him.

It gave far more smoke and less light than a wood fire, but there was something about the smell that felt like he had reached into the past. His mother should be there. In his minds eye, shadows crossed the room, laughing and talking, but in a far-off sense. He wanted to reach out and grab hold of the memories, but they faded away and only the shadowy room was left to him.

He sat awake for the rest of the the night, and the following day brought a slight reprieve from the rain. There was still a trickle of mist that soaked their hair, but Aethelbert did not want to wait for better weather. They moved at a leisurely speed, even though the horses were well-rested, and Alfred's mount was eager to pull ahead of the rest of the group. Alfred had to fight the animal to keep it behind the mount of the king.

They left Selwood in the early hours of the day, but the cloud cover made it impossible for Alfred to judge the time. He sat quiet in his saddle, with Wihtred at his side as always. The young prince worried about Ser Wulfheard, but he dared not ask after him, for fear of the answer. He tried not to think about the fragility of human existence. Instead, he closed his eyes and he prayed, and let his horse follow the others.

Wind snapped the banner of the House of Wessex, which flew near Alfred's head as he rode at the right hand of the king. They came in sight of the fortress on a hill, and horns blew over the walls, and the king's trumpeter called back. They kicked their horses into a gallop that shook the ground as they ran together, and Alfred's steed called out to the looming buildings.

The gates opened, and a party of riders raced out to meet them, Aethelred in the lead of the guard.

"We did not find you when we got here!" Aethelred exclaimed when the horses slowed, and he was next to Alfred and the king. "God be praised that we are all well!"

"God be praised," agreed Theobald, who had accompanied the welcoming party and quickly re-established his place at Aethelbert's right hand, crowding Alfred's horse until it moved back a step.

"Let us go then." Aethelbert looked at the city with determination, and Alfred thought that he might even be afraid.

The City of Exeter was decorated for the wedding celebration. Banners of red and orange hung and fluttered from every building, and people lined the streets to greet the king's parade. Children rushed forward with apples and sweet treats to give to Alfred and the others. Alfred smiled and accepted the tokens, making a basket out of his cloak to carry it all.

"Have you seen my future wife?" Aethelbert asked Aethelred, speaking loud enough to be heard over the shouts of the crowd, which closed in on them from all sides.

"I have, your highness."

"And?"

Aethelred shrugged his shoulders, and a look of irritation crossed Aethelbert's face. Alfred wondered what the king expected their brother to say about the girl, as Alfred had no idea what qualities made a good wife.

The crowd threw flowers at their feet as the royals made their way to the courtyard where they stopped their horses in front of a receiving line. The Lord and Lady of Exeter stood first in line, and Aethelbert's betrothed, with her father, stood next to them.

Aethelbert took a deep breath and dismounted while servants rushed forth to assist him and to take his horse. The two princes remained in their saddles while the king walked over to greet the Lord and Lady of Exeter, and then he was introduced to the woman that he would marry.

"The Lady Giselda," Lord Exeter announced, and the entire courtyard went silent as the king took stock of her.

Alfred and Aethelred were helped down from their horses, and Alfred gave over the bounty of gifts that he carried in his cloak. Servants put the treats, flowers, and several trinkets into a basket and took them into the house while Aethelbert greeted Giselda's father, then moved down the receiving line to the other lords, who had gathered from all over Wessex in anticipation of the king's wedding.

"I hope you do not mind." The Lord of Exeter was apologizing to the king while he was absently greeting Alfred. "I have made the arrangements for the wedding in your stead."

"I thank you," Aethelbert called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the shade of the house, leaving his betrothed behind.

The Hall of Exeter was decked out in colorful tapestries, and the crest of the royal family of Wessex was prevalent everywhere that Alfred looked. An altar was set at the back of the hall where waited an archbishop and several more red and orange banners. Alfred and Aethelred took their places near the altar to witness the hand-binding ceremony. The archbishop began in Latin as the bride and her father made their way through the smiling crowd.

The girl was young, and Alfred assumed pretty. She was shy as Aethelbert took her hand. The crowd murmured and sighed as the two looked into each other eyes. The archbishop arranged them so that they were gripping one another's forearm, then he took a length of purple cloth and loosely wrapped their arms. Alfred was solemn through the ceremony, listening intently to the prayers while he stood next to Aethelred, who fidgeted with boredom.

The bride and groom raised their bound hands for the room to see and the crowd of well-dressed lords as well as the servants of the house, cheered. The minstrels broke into song and King Aethelbert's men rushed forward to congratulate him.

Servants brought food and drink and the room became raucous. Lady Giselda was led by several women to sit next to the main hearth. Alfred noticed that she sat like a statue through the feast, not eating nor talking to the women who doted on her.

Alfred drank some of the honey mead, a liquid he had never seen before. Aethelred indulged in it and became drunk before Alfred poured his second cup. "It is time!" Aethelred shouted, drunkenly raising his cup in the air. "To the marriage bed!"

His call instigated a cheer that caused the young bride to blush. Alfred furrowed his brow.

"What is happening?" Alfred asked.

"The consummation," Aethelred whispered.

Alfred still did not understand. The bride and groom were led away from the hearth and to a room cordoned off with tapestries. Several important men went with them into the room. Alfred looked at his brother and raised an eyebrow in question.

"They think we are too young to know about it."

Alfred glared at the tapestries suspiciously. He decided that he would have to ask Wihtred to explain to him later.

"This mead has been brewed for months," Aethelred leaned on Alfred's shoulder and showed him his cup. "That whole wall, all of those pots. Honey-mead. Fit for a king."

Servants handed them each a skewer of meat and onions, as cheers emitted from behind the closed curtains. Aethelred dropped his skewer on the ground and got up to investigate. Alfred watched as a wary dog rushed over and snatched up the skewer, eyeing Alfred as it hurried away. Aethelred tried to peek through the tapestries, but a guard stopped him and sent him back to the fire.

Alfred was still confused when the young king re-entered the main hall, followed by an approving gentry. Theobald gave Aethelbert cup after cup of mead, even when the king was begging to go back and lie down.

"He wants to lie down!" Aethelred yelled out. "Let him go back to his wife!"

The crowd cheered again, and Alfred was becoming annoyed with them. They all yelled and cheered as Aethelbert got up and went back to the private room, but this time he went alone, and Theobald and the other nobles drank, ate, and sang for a bit before they started shouting for the king to return to the party.

The house did not sleep that night, but Alfred did, leaning against a pot of mead in the corner, and dozing uneasily while noise and commotion stirred all around him. He woke groggy and stiff, and got up with the intent of finding a quiet place to pray. To Alfred's surprise, the party was still in full swing. Aethelred pushed a cup of mead into his hands and danced away to the beat of the ceaseless music in the breaking dawn hours. Alfred waited for them to tire, but after several hours, he realized that the king was not going to sleep that morning, and the day had already begun.


	27. Chapter 27

Guthrum looked in the flames of the hearth fire that he shared with his brother, Ivar, who was neither sick, nor healthy. Ivar's legs never grew, and Guthrum was left wondering if he had contracted something or broken them somehow when they made the crossing. There had been a time when Ivar could run, Guthrum remembered, even though he was never very fast, and he tired quickly. Guthrum had often carried Ivar on his back over the hills of their homeland, but after they came to the green island, Ivar continued to grow while his legs remained stunted and turned in at the knees and toes, crumpling beneath the light weight of him, looking like child's legs misplaced on a young man's body.

A cough rattled the walls of their room, and the voice behind the cough sounded familiar. Guthrum looked through the doorway at the prone figures on the floor. Halfdene was lying there, sick, with his mother bent over him. Guthrum got up from the fire and went to them.

"Aunt Rayna." He put a hand on her shoulder. "You are sick, too, and you should lie down."

She touched Halfdene's brow with a wet rag. "He needs me." Insisted Rayna, whose daughter had passed from the fever three days before.

Guthrum looked at his cousin, whose skin was as white as a new lamb, and he was sweating. His eyes were closed, but the orbs behind the lids were moving frantically, and his lips moved, but no sound escaped him, except a whimper now and then, or a moan, racked with pain and fever. 'He is going to die,' Guthrum thought, but he could not tell his aunt that her care was futile. Instead, he sat down next to her and helped her cool his cousin's forehead. He had little hope, but Rayna seemed grateful, and they sat up late into the night, taking turns toweling him, over his face, neck, and chest, where his skin was hot to the touch.

Hours into their vigil, Rayna fell asleep and Guthrum watched over them both. Dawn marched in with gray rain, and the coughing and constant care of the sick continued. Guthrum woke from a hazy slumber and realized that Halfdene was calm, and the silence terrified him. Guthrum rushed to his side and found his cousin's eyes open, and he reached out to feel his head. Feeling the normal warmth of skin, Guthrum breathed a sigh of relief, and Halfdene's blank eyes rolled in his direction.

"The fever has broken," Guthrum whispered.

Rayna came awake with a start and grabbed Halfdene's arm. He looked at her and she sobbed with relief, crawling closer to him as she gathered him in her arms. Guthrum stared at his cousin, amazed to see him return from the brink of certain death. The breaking day brought bad news for some of the families, and muffled wails of mothers, wives, brothers, could be heard throughout. Some of the bodies were carried away, others continued to cough, to fight, to live.

Halfdene was weak, and thirsty, but his body was calm, and the terrible heat had left him. Rayna hurried to get food for him, but he was unable to eat more than a spoonful of porridge. He pushed back his hair, which was matted with sweat, and he watched the fire with a distant look in his eyes, as if he knew how far he had walked on the shadow-side. Guthrum felt as if he were watching the ghost of Halfdene, a pale and shaking version.

A shout from outside announced a visitor, and every able body in the main room turned to watch as the front door of the mead hall open. Several men walked in, and Guthrum recognized the double-braided beard of Rothgar before the Norseman pushed back his rain-soaked hood and revealed his face. Rothgar was tasked with bringing news to the mead hall in the times when Ragnar could not get out. He spent a week at a time riding through the northern realm, gathering information, and his returns to the hall were widely anticipated.

"Chief Ragnar." Rothgar's voice echoed through the hall.

Ragnar was closer than Guthrum had realized. He stepped out of the shadows and his blade caught the light from the hearth fire as he motioned for Guthrum to follow to the room where Ivar was resting alone. Ragnar and Rothgar sat down together beside the blazing fire, and Guthrum sat next to his sickly brother.

"Odin's eye is open, Chief Ragnar. I bring words from every corner of your realm."

"Did they get him?" Ragnar asked in a low voice. "Is Hagar bringing me the Mercian king's head? That damn Burgred thought he got away with sending a raiding party to my home? He thought he could fail to kill MY son? HA! He deserves the cruelest death that Hagar can devise!"

Guthrum looked down at the fire. He hated thinking about the day that the Mercians had attacked. He did not think about the sentry that he and Halfdene had killed in the woods, he was proud of that. He did not think about the charged energy of the air during the battle. He had loved that. The only moment of that entire day that stood out to Guthrum was the moment that he had turned to see the Saxon horse bearing down on him, and he had screamed in terror. If that had been his final moment, Odin would have thought him weak, and he would have been cast down to the coldest depths of Hel. He thought that nothing could be worse than remembering that day, until Rothgar spoke again, and his words hung in the air around their heads.

"Hagar is dead, Ragnar."

The room went quiet. Only the coughing from outside and the crackle of the fire from their hearth could be heard.

Ragnar shook his head. He did not want it to be true. "What happened?"

"They went for the Mercian king, but Burgred ran south. Hagar followed, and was overtaken by the southern king. There, he was killed."

"How did they let him get all the way to Wessex?"

"We have only the word of one squire, who escaped the killing. None other has returned."

"Bring the squire."

Rothgar shouted to the outside room and a boy a few years younger than Guthrum walked in. Guthrum could see that he was afraid in the presence of great men like Rothgar and his father, but the squire stood straight and looked them in the eye.

"My chief," the boy said, looking to Ragnar.

"Was it Burgred or the King of Wessex who killed Hagar?" Ragnar began without preamble.

"It was King Aethelbert, Chief Ragnar. It was the southern king who struck him down."

Ragnar's expression grew a little darker. "How did he die?"

The question was filled with grave intensity, and all eyes were on the young boy. Some men were gifted with words and could tell a story so that a picture forms in the mind of the one listening, but the squire was not one of those people, and his report was short and unembellished.

"He died well, my chief, with his sword in his hand."

Ragnar looked at the fire. They all thirsted for details, but they knew that none were going to be had. Ragnar fought the tears that stung his eyes, and Guthrum could see the rims going red and the emotion that his father held back.

"We will kill both of those kings." Ragnar looked at his sons with the blaze of the fire reflected in his eyes. "We will kill Burgred. And then we will march on Wessex and kill that king, too."

Rothgar interrupted. "This will be done, Ragnar. But we will need men, and there is a problem in the realm. Some of the slaves have cut away their chains and refuse to obey their masters. The earls in the north are asking for help."

"Why can these earls of mine not deal with their own problems?"

"Earl Svenson tried. He killed many of his slaves, but the peasants murdered him with clubs, in daylight, with witnesses both Saxon and Norse."

Ragnar narrowed his eyes. Guthrum could see outrage working its way through his father's mind.

"Who leads them?"

"There is one who calls himself Aelle the Second. He calls himself the rightful ruler of Northumbria."

"And what does Edbert, King of Northumbria, say to that?" Ragnar asked.

"Our puppet king is useless." Rothgar spat on the ground.

Ivar stretched and started the laborious process of standing up. He had long lost the chubbiness of youth, to the point of looking gaunt. Two years Guthrum's junior, Ivar had recently celebrated his sixteenth birthday. Guthrum watched him, waiting for him to need help, but Ivar got his spindly, under-developed legs beneath him and, with the aid of a crooked cane, heaved himself into a vertical position.

"King Edbert will have to defend against Aelle," Rothgar said.

"If Edbert dies, his cousin, Ecgwerth, will inherit the throne." Ragnar spoke as the flame shadows danced over his face.

"This is true," Rothgar agreed.

"Aelle is popular," Ragnar whispered, as if he were speaking to the fire in front of them. "He has led the people to a bloody uprising. They have come far to defy the Norsemen, and they will be eager to finish the rebellion. The whiff of freedom is in their noses. We must crush it. Aelle is not a threat to us, he is a threat to the King of Northumbria. Ecgwerth is not such a craven as his cousin."

"Ecgwerth is young," Rothgar agreed. "He will want to fight."

"But he MUST win," Ragnar grumbled. "If Edbert dies, and Aelle kills Ecgwerth, that will leave Aelle undisputed." He looked up at Ivar, who was hobbling along the back wall of the room, a cane in one hand, holding on to the wall with the other. "Ivar," he called. "Do you see any prophecy in these flames?"

"I am a cripple, Father, not a seer." Ivar hobbled back to the hearth and took his time folding his crumpled legs underneath him and lowering himself back to the ground.

"Look again. Do the gods show you the future, Ivar?"

Ivar inspected the flames and furrowed his brow. The fire snapped and crackled in the silence of the room.

"No, Father," Ivar said. "The flames do not speak."

"How do we make sure that Ecgwerth wins?" Guthrum broke his observant silence.

"First," Ragnar informed them. "Guthrum, you will kill Edbert, just as I slew his father before him. Amid his own hall where his men outnumber yours. If you do this, you will win great glory, and maybe we can get a Norse girl to come here and be your bride."

Rothgar laughed. "Poor girl," he grinned.

Guthrum shook his head at their teasing and set his mind to the idea of killing the weak young king. He had envisioned plunging a knife into the boy when he was a simpering toddler, but Ragnar had not allowed it at the time.

"How will I get close enough?" Guthrum asked.

Ragnar only smiled at his son. Meanwhile, the news of Hagar's death had circulated, and Rayna's wailing pitched in the background. She was still crying the following morning when Guthrum left for his long march to York. Rothgar led a guard of men behind him and they sloshed through the lowlands, their deer-hide breeks wet all the way up to their thighs. They walked throughout the day and spent the night in a peasant hovel where Guthrum took the daughter of the house while his men held her parents and siblings outside. When he was done with her, everyone came in to warm themselves by the fire and Guthrum sat back to reflect on the fact that he was on his way to win his greatest glory.

Rain fell throughout the next day, but the ground was getting higher, and therefore dryer. Guthrum looked up and let the rain wash over his face before he dropped his eyes to the ground again. The small amount of sunlight they had gotten that day began to recede before they heard the horns blowing over York. The sky was as gray as the ground as a procession of mounted men trotted out to meet them, rattling with weaponry. Guthrum shrugged his sopping cloak on his shoulders and glared at the approaching guards as he stepped out of the field, and his feet found a road for the first time in days.

The riders stopped before them and Guthrum felt overwhelmed by the size of the horses. Horses existed in plenty in his homeland, but they were much smaller, shaggier animals, usually employed in pulling carts. The horses of the Saxon isles, Guthrum had deduced, must be the offspring of the great horse Sleipneir, the six-legged steed of Odin. Guthrum hated their horses.

"We have come to see the king, on the orders of my chief, Ragnar," Rothgar informed the Saxons. "I see the king's banners above this house."

The Saxons conferred with one another at a glance, and then the captain nodded his head, his helm reflecting brightly in the pale sunlight. "This way, my lords," the captain motioned. They were polite enough to dismount their horses and walk back to the hall under the shocked stare of peasants, who peeked at the monstrous Danes from the perceived safety of their hovels. Guthrum did not look at them, but followed the men and horses into the hall, and the rain was left outdoors.

The Hall of York was a fortress built long ago by the Romans, complete with defensive walls and stone out-buildings. It could easily have been defended, but the people who filled the crumbling building only ducked away from the Norsemen. The hall was one large, stone room, with pillars running along the sides to support the ceiling, and alcoves behind the pillars where the ceiling was lower, and the darkness concealed the people. The hearth fire blazed in the center of the room, but the king was not to be seen.

"We will refresh for the night, before we take audience with King Edbert." Rothgar informed the captain.

Their clothes were sopping, and the packs that they had carried on their backs were soaked all the way through. Rothgar stripped down in front of the largest fire, wearing nothing at all as he hung his belongings about to dry. The other Norse followed his lead, and the Saxons gasped and averted their eyes, and the women were ushered out into the rain. Guthrum pulled Saxon ornaments from where they hung between pillars and used the hooks to hang his clothes and everything that he had brought in his pack. He turned around to find a trembling servant holding a plate with a few boiled, peeled eggs in a nest of raw green vegetables.

Guthrum picked up an egg and sniffed it, deeply disappointed in the offering. Rothgar was outraged. He grabbed the man by the front of his tunic and shook him so hard that his plate fell to the floor and his head wobbled back and forth as if it were going to break from his neck.

"BRING FOOD!" Rothgar demanded.

The servant ran away and put skewers of meat on the fire, but he was too scared to go near the giant men again. Another man gave them bread, while still another boiled some vegetables to make them palatable, and they tried to placate the Danes with eggs, burned meat, and cooked cabbage. Guthrum drank the watered-down mead that they offered, grimacing into his cup.

"This mead is piss!" Kollskagg got up from his place and walked to the edge of the fire's light where he urinated on the rushes. "This mead is nothing but piss!" he yelled, waking some of the servants who had managed to fall asleep among the Danes' loud tales and laughter.

Rothgar got up to urinate, too, and his spray warmed the back of a young servant man, who leapt up from his sleeping place in a comical dance that made the Danes laugh. Guthrum tried to aim a stream at a servant, too, but they wizened quickly and moved themselves further into the dark alcoves of the house. He laughed and talked into the night, but eventually Guthrum's head started to feel heavy. Rothgar set up a watch, giving Guthrum the final shift in the morning.

"You need your rest," Rothgar grumbled.

Guthrum was the youngest among the band of Norse, his beard just starting to grow in wispy patches of bright red, which curled in different directions. Rothgar was a man his father's age, and Guthrum thought that he saw a twinkle of fatherly pride in the older man's eye.

"You will do well," Rothgar predicted.

Guthrum laid down and slept easily, waking several minutes before his watch began. The people were milling about in the light of day, trying not to come anywhere near the slumbering giants who filled the center of their living space. The rain was still coming down outside, and most of the people were forced to remain indoors, though none of the women had returned to the hall.

Kollskagg touched Guthrum's shoulder, and he sat up to take his watch.

Kollskagg sat next to him. "No point in going to sleep for one hour."

Guthrum turned toward a slight commotion at the far end of the hall where a door opened, and pale light spilled in from the rising sun outside. Several armed guards entered the hall with a line of men behind them. They were all glancing at the Danes with wide, fearful eyes.

Kollskagg pointed to a slight, skinny boy wrapped in an expensive cloak. "King Edbert," he whispered.

Guthrum found himself feeling very calm about what he had to do. Only a very weak king would allow an armed band of warriors to walk into his house and take it over. Killing him would be easy, Guthrum decided. He narrowed his eyes at Edbert as he ate, and the king nervously glanced back at him. After the morning meal, the Danes' clothes were dry enough to be worn again, and their packs were re-rolled, and once again the hall looked like a Saxon habitation.

"Take us to the king," Rothgar commanded.


	28. Chapter 28

Edbert stood in front of a large hearth where he watched the Danes approach. A crown of sparkling jewels decorated Edbert's brow, and his cloak was long, soft and supple, dyed red and edged with the white fur of ermine. But, for all his pretenses, he was a scrawny little man with a pointed chin and a permanent squint.

"King Edbert," Rothgar began, rudely speaking before the king addressed him. "We have come to talk to you about a problem. Have you heard of this Aelle?"

Edbert responded in fluent Norse. "Yes, I am aware of him. He is no relation to the crown, even though he bears the same name as my father."

"He claims to be king, and we haven't seen YOU doing anything to stop him from claiming it."

Guthrum stepped forward. Edbert watched him walk closer, but the Saxon guards stepped in the way.

"It is an honor to meet the heir of my friend." King Edbert spoke from behind the safe wall of two guards.

"We have not met," Guthrum informed him. "I cannot even see you."

"My guards would like for you to stand with your men, Ser Guthrum."

Guthrum looked to Rothgar, who motioned for him to step back. Guthrum complied and the guards moved, but only slightly.

"Guthrum is here," Rothgar informed, "to tell you that his father is disappointed in your handling of Aelle."

"My apologies," Edbert gulped. "To your father for any ... inconveniences."

"We have dead earls," Guthrum growled. "Dead by the hands of peasants. And the peasants are led by Aelle."

Rothgar laid a hand on Guthrum's shoulder and spoke Saxon with a heavy Norse accent, but he spoke loud and clear. "Do you have the tribute for Chief Ragnar?"

Edbert's eyes widened. He glanced nervously at the ealdormen who were gathered around him. The guards stole glances back at the king, and Guthrum realized that Rothgar had revealed something secret.

"Your king gathers taxes for the mighty Ragnar," Rothgar announced, turning to face the bulk of the room as he raised his voice. "Your money lines our coffers, and your wheat fills our bellies." Rothgar grinned at the king. "Edbert's coffers are empty," he sneered. "And he has no money to pay his soldiers."

The guards glanced at one another. They were all paying higher taxes but had been told that the money was intended to raise an army against the invaders, not to hand over to them, a ransom for an uneasy peace.

"It is unbecoming," Edbert called out, his voice cracking. "To spread vicious lies in the house of one's host!"

Rothgar smiled at him. "I would agree, as I never lie."

A grumbling rose up among the Saxons, and Guthrum could see the doubt in the eyes of the guards who stood between him and his destiny.

"The tribute must be paid," Rothgar demanded. "And because we have brought our heir to receive it, we must have it given to us by your heir. Do you HAVE an heir, King Edbert?"

Edbert's face was white and his hands were trembling. He opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out, so he just nodded.

"Bring him, and the treasure. We will wait in the comfort of your hall, with you as our companion, until he arrives."

"Why-" Edbert's voice creaked, and he cleared his throat. "Why must you have the tribute delivered to you by my heir?"

"This is one of our most important customs," Rothgar sneered.

"I have never heard of this custom."

"I think there is a great deal you do not know, little king," Rothgar told him. "There might be a great deal that your soldiers do not know, also."

Edbert flushed pink.

"So, send word to your cousin Ecgwerth. We will accept the tribute from the hands of no other."

King Edbert stammered, but he could not argue with them. He looked forlornly at his gathered lords, most of whom could not look him in the eye. "We are pleased to have you as our guests." Edbert gave a courteous bow.

Rothgar laughed at him and mocked his bow. Edbert stood silent, looking between the shoulders of his guards. He walked, scared, through the great stone hall, and he remained surrounded by his guards even when he was squatting over his chamber pot. The day ended, and the night was long for Edbert, who laid awake, listening to the snoring of his unwanted guests, and he regretted the breaking of day.

"Some entertainment for our guests." Edbert called out after the breakfast and customary biblical reading, which the pagans mocked by throwing bits of food and bones at the archbishop.

"Hubert!" called out one of the Saxons. The commoners and lords cheered, trying to create an air of normality. A man among them stood up, flushed from nerves or fear. He looked to King Edbert for permission to proceed, and Edbert nodded his head.

"The wind that blows between the world, it nipped him to the bone.

And he yearned to the flare of Hell-gate, there as the light of his own hearthstone

The devil he sat behind the bars, when the desperate legion drew

The devil he blew on a branded soul and set it aside to cool."

The room erupted with applause, but the pagans only glared at Hubert. The poet looked again at the king, who urged him to continue. Hubert glanced nervously at the pagans, then cleared his throat and looked into the fire, trying to settle his nerves.

"Down in yonder green field

There lies a knight slain under his shield

His hounds they lie down at his feet

So well they can their master keep

His hawks they fly so eagerly

There's no fowl dare him come near."

Edbert applauded along with the rest of the house, until he felt the weight of Guthrum's glare. His applause slowed as he turned to look at the hulking, red-haired young man. Edbert knew that he and Guthrum were near the same age, as he had never forgotten their first encounter, or the death of his own father, or the malice in the red-haired boy's eyes as he glared at young Edbert that day. He suffered through the day as he had the last and had to force himself to swallow food during meals, even though his stomach was tied in knots.

"Where are the women?" Rothgar demanded.

"There are no women here," Edbert informed them. "They ran away the day that you arrived. They are all gone."

"Liar," laughed Rothgar. "None of these men would allow their women to go far."

Rothgar sent a party out into the woods to hunt them down, but the women had left in the rain, and nature covered their tracks. The only thing that the Norsemen knew for sure was that they were not in York. They drank their usual amount and told their loud stories late into the night, as they had the previous night. Guthrum enjoyed the fear in the king's eyes, as if he knew that he was looking at the face of his own doom. Guthrum watched him like a cat waiting in front of a mouse hole. The barbarians ate and drank more than three times what a Saxon consumed in a day, and soon the household was running out of food.

"We must send a hunting party," Edbert informed his guards. He loathed giving up any men, but he could not let the people, or the intruding guests, go hungry.

"I will go, too, on this hunt," grinned Rothgar.

Edbert stammered for words, but again he had none, so he just nodded. Rothgar led the party of Saxons, grinning at Guthrum as he kicked his horse into a gallop. Guthrum knew that Rothgar wanted time alone with the soldiers in order to fan the flame of mistrust that he had sparked when he told the people that the king had run out of gold. The Norsemen knew that the guards started whispering to one another about how long it had been since they were last paid.

The hall rejoiced when they heard the return call of the hunters, and their patience was rewarded with a doe. The servants hurried to take the animal from the hunters and went about skinning and cooking it. Guthrum looked at Rothgar, who was glaring at King Edbert.

"Your heir has still not arrived," Rothgar pointed out. "How many days do we have to wait?"

The scorching smell of venison had wafted from the cooking pit when a lookout rushed down from the wall, ran through the courtyard and to the bishop's ear. Guthrum watched the bishop rush to the ear of the king, and he watched Edbert as he received the news. The entire hall was waiting in silence as the king stood up to make an announcement.

"My cousin is arriving." The king spoke with a great amount of relief flooding his voice.

"How far is he?" Rothgar turned directly to the messenger.

"A day to the east, lord." The messenger bowed his head, trembling with fear.

"Do they carry the tribute with them?"

"I know, lord, that they carry with them a cumbersome chest, with large bronze hinges."

Edbert clasped his hands together and thanked God, but he still had hours to wait before the

traveling party arrived. With the time they had to prepare, the people of the vill put together a celebration under the glaring eyes of the oppressive pagans. The cheers were heard first in the distance, like a faraway rumble, before Edbert realized what he was hearing and rushed to the doorway. Commoners spilled out of their houses throughout the vill, and some threw flowers at the feet of the visiting royal.

Guthrum watched the fanfare from the arrow-slit windows of the Hall of York. His pulse was throbbing in his ear, echoing the pounding of his heart. He looked at Rothgar, who was intent on his prey, walking from one window to the next, getting closer to the front door as Ecgwerth came down the road.

Guthrum and Rothgar had never talked about what they were going to do, or how it should play out. They just looked at one another, and Guthrum knew that the time had arrived for him to greet his destiny. He had killed a man once before, and he remembered the pressure of the knife handle against his hand, the feeling of the steel slipping across skin, and the hot spray of blood.

Rothgar was taking slow, deliberate steps toward the door of the hall, where people were gathering to wave and cheer to Ecgwerth, who was dismounting his horse in the courtyard. Several men bore a large cart that carried a huge treasure chest. They unfettered the horse of its burden and hurried to Ecgwerth, who stood waiting for them. Ecgwerth gave a last smile and wave to the crowd and walked from the warm sunlight into the dim hall.

"Cousin!" Edbert tried to warn him, but it was too late. Rothgar grabbed Ecgwerth before his eyes could adjust, and the old Dane hoisted the young Saxon noble into the air and slammed him against the door post. The crowd shrieked and backed away, some running out of the hall and shouting warnings to the Saxons outside. The house was in a panic, but the bodyguards who had sworn themselves to Ecgwerth rushed forward, and the Danish warriors lifted blades to their throats, subdued them, and backed them away.

Rothgar shook the squirming man in his grasp. "You had best have it all." He spoke in Saxon, sneering close to Ecgwerth's face, then turned to the men who carried the chest. "Open it."

Ecgwerth's men opened the chest, and Guthrum looked down at piles of silver, copper, and gold coins, along with gold necklaces, some precious gems, and a large bag of pearls.

"It seems that the cousin is more deserving of our trust than is the king," Rothgar said, looking over his shoulder at Edbert.

Edbert opened his mouth to stammer, but he had no answer. Guthrum was tired of the stupid, spineless king. He hated to see a crown on such a weak brow, and he could not bear another day of such an undeserving person carrying the title of king. Edbert was staring at Rothgar, trying to find his voice. Everyone in the room was honed on the scene that Rothgar was making, even the guards who were supposed to protect Edbert.

For all of his worry about how he was going to get close enough, when the time presented itself, Guthrum was able to reach in front of a Saxon guard, who was distracted, grab hold of Edbert before the sniveling king had a chance to duck away, and pull him close, knocking a guard off balance while sending Edbert floundering to keep his own feet under him.

"Guards! GUARDS!" Edbert screamed for his life.

The guard closest to them regained his footing and grabbed for his sword. Saxon blades flew from scabbards throughout the hall. Only the guards sworn to Ecgwerth stood still, because they already had blades to their necks. Guthrum backed against the wall and put his knife against Edbert's throat, and his guards froze with their swords in their hands, watching their lord intently.

"Now," Rothgar said.

They killed Ecgwerth's guards first, then they turned on the men surrounding Edbert, and with sharp axes and blunt hammers, they made short and bloody work of them. Edbert watched the blood of his bodyguard spray over his shoes and he went pale with fear. The flurry of gruesome activity was short, and Guthrum kept an arm around the young, sniveling king's throat. Silence blanketed the hall, and the only sound that could be heard was the soft crying of Edbert, who became lost to despair.

Rothgar placed a knife at Ecgwerth's throat and the peasants backed even further away. Their eyes were wide, shining white in the dimness of the alcoves of the hall. Rothgar looked around him, grinning at them, glad to have their attention.

"Watch very carefully," Rothgar said, speaking Saxon so that Ecgwerth would understand.

Edbert stopped crying and started wriggling and squealing, sounding like a piglet that knows it is on the way to the slaughter. Guthrum was not nervous nor scared. He knew that even if he chose not to drive the blade home, he had already killed Edbert completely. The puny king opened his mouth to scream, and Guthrum plunged cold steel into his belly and pulled the blade across, opening the king, who stopped squealing. He turned as his guts slipped out of him, and he stared at Guthrum in disbelief.

"Say hello to Hel, weak king."

Edbert fell to the ground, blood staining the ermine lining of his cloak.

Ecgwerth did not move. He watched his cousin die, then he looked at Rothgar, and the wicked blade that was pointed at him.

"Will you kill me, too?" Ecgwerth asked.

"No," Rothgar told him. "You will be the King of Northumbria."

Ecgwerth caught his breath, and his eyes closed, pained, as if that news was worse.


	29. Chapter 29

Rothgar sheathed his knife. "You will proclaim the right to your throne and kill Aelle the Usurper. That, as well as yearly taxes, will keep you on your throne. If you choose not to obey, we will kill you and put someone else in your place. We will kill your guards, your wife, your lords, your children. I will kill your horse. And I will have another king who will obey."

Ecgwerth might have had words for them at that moment, but the breath had left his body and he could barely gasp any air into his lungs. Word of the king's death seeped through the crowd outside, and the people became somber, and scared.

Guthrum made the servants drag the bodies outside, where they were left in a pile to rot, and crows arrived to harvest the bounty. Inside the hall, the servants cowered at the far end, worried that they might be the next to be killed. Some among the commoners were guards, men stripped of their weapons as well as their dignity and fight. They sat cowering on the floor with the servants and the lords, and Guthrum was pleased that their spirits were broken, and they were completely subdued.

"When will he kill Aelle?" Guthrum asked.

"The little man has a plan," Rothgar said.

"What is it?" Guthrum asked.

Ecgwerth cleared his throat. "I will invite this Aelle, along with the other lords of the kingdom, to swear fealty to me. When he comes to contest me, we will kill him, so that we need not meet in the field. And, without a battle, his forces would grow loyal to me."

Guthrum smiled. He liked the new king better.

"With the Northumbrian lords coming here," Rothgar said. "We will need to find a new residence."

"You will … stay in York?" Ecgwerth was obviously disappointed.

"When it comes time to crush Aelle, I will see it happen with my own eyes." Rothgar glared at him. "Never forget who made you a king."

"Yes, lords," Ecgwerth inclined his head. "At the east side of the building there is a door, and steps that lead down to an ancient Roman bathhouse. I have not seen the condition of the room in several years, but you might find it acceptable to conceal yourselves there so that the lords of Northumbria do not see you, and word does not leak out to Aelle that you wait for him."

"Come," Rothgar stood up. "Let us go to our new abode, until the criminal is brought to us."

The Danes allowed their subjects to lead them out of the hall, and down a path that was paved by large, flat stones. The workmanship was impressive, but then Guthrum saw the marvels of Roman architecture for the first time.

The Saxon servants walked down a short flight of steps to reach the doorway of the strange building. Guthrum followed behind, holding a torch out in front of him to combat the darkness.

Rothgar grabbed Guthrum's shoulder. "This could be a trap. What sort of place is this?"

"Stay here," Guthrum insisted. "Keep half of the men with you and I will go below."

He could not resist the pull of curiosity that dragged him down the dark steps. He came to the bottom and looked around as the servants placed their torches into brass fixtures that were secured to the pillars which held up the roof of the building. The bathhouse was made of poured concrete, a technology that no one in the known world could comprehend. They all touched the smooth, porous walls as the Saxons lit extra torches, and the shadows were pushed further back, revealing a large bathing pool that was so long that the torch light did not reach its end.

"How old is this place?" Guthrum asked.

"We do not know," admitted the servant in the lead, as he ushered the rest of his people back up and out of the space. "It was built by the giants who once lived on this island. When God flooded the world, most of the waters did not reach our island. The giants of the world hid in the mountains here, and to the north of us. They built bridges and places like this."

"A giant would not fit through that door," Guthrum reasoned.

The man shrugged. "That is what I have always been told."

Guthrum shooed him away. He touched the smooth pillars with wonder, marveling at the perfection of what-appeared-to-be stone. Along both sides of the room stood the pillars, like intermittent sentries. Guthrum was reminded of the pillars in the hall above them, which looked like the same material, and where the architecture also had deep alcoves enveloped in shadow. The pillars were decorated with shallow relief sculptures, perfect pictures of naked human forms. His hosts had long ago discovered the markings and had thoroughly scrubbed and sanded the offensive images until they looked like they had been worn down over thousands of years, but the little dancing people were still recognizable, and their carved faces with realistic eyes amazed the Dane.

Guthrum ran his finger along the carving of a young girl's hip, the smooth edges and the perfection of the proportions of the figure made it appear that a real person had been shrunken down and plastered to the wall. Guthrum leaned down and touched the side of the pool, entranced by the stonework. His touch rippled the still water, which radiated out. Guthrum looked up to follow the lines in the water, and at the edge of the pool he saw a dark thing, a snake, dipping its mouth for a drink. The snake saw him, too, and slithered off into a corner. It was good luck to see a serpent, and Guthrum smiled to himself.

"The water is warm," he observed.

The Danes who were with him all bent over to touch the water, then they heard Rothgar's impatient voice from above.

"Guthrum!"

"Come down," Guthrum called back.

Leaving guards at the door, Rothgar came down the steps. "What sort of place is this?" the older Norseman demanded. "We will need firewood, kindling, straw, blankets, food, and drink. And women, if this place had any."

"We should make chairs," suggested Thorald.

Guthrum nodded. "Go to the king and tell him our needs."

Thorald grumbled at the assignment and turned up the stairs.

Rothgar touched the carved pillars. "What sort of place …"

"I have never seen anything like it," Guthrum said.

Rothgar shook his head. He inspected the water and marveled at its natural warmth. Thorald returned with supplies and they set to work making chairs for themselves. They had to pass several days, and filled the hours drinking Saxon mead and telling one another stories, some old, some newly made up. Guthrum paced the bathhouse nervously, worrying that the lords would come to Ecgwerth's aid and lock them in the concrete tomb until they starved. Rothgar tried to reassure him, but they always kept two guards at the door.

"How do we know he has even called his lords?" Guthrum wondered out loud.

"He has called them," Rothgar assured. "He wants us gone as soon as he can get rid of us."

"Mm," Guthrum growled. More days passed, and he was nearly convinced that the new king had tricked them, then his guards at the door sent down word that the first of the lords was arriving. "How do we know if one of them is Aelle?" Guthrum stood at the base of the steps, one foot lifted from the ground, but not yet on the step as he hesitated. He did not want to break their cover too soon, and even the guards at the top of the steps were ducking inside the doorframe so that they would not be seen.

Rothgar set a gentle hand on Guthrum's shoulder. "Patience," he cautioned.

Guthrum took the next shift guarding the doorway so that he could see the lord leaving. The man was far too old to be the Aelle that they were looking for, but no others came that day.

"Is that all the following that Ecgwerth can muster?" Guthrum growled to Thorald, who stood with him at the door.

"Perhaps he is no king," Thorald grumbled.

The following day Rothgar was standing sentry, and called down the steps, "Two more lords arriving."

Guthrum came up to peer at them. They were dressed well, in family crests and in the red and white of Northumbria, but they were not the usurper.

"He has yellow hair," Rothgar said. "And he is young, but not too young. A full beard."

"Older than I," Guthrum glared at Rothgar, wondering if the old warrior was teasing him for his half-grown beard.

"Older than you," Rothgar agreed, ignoring the irritation in his tone.

They watched the men come, and they watched them go. Another came, and then night fell, and brought with it several more well-wishers, who presented King Ecgwerth with gifts and oaths.

"We cannot see them in the dark," Guthrum growled.

At midnight mass, one of the monks broke from his line and hurried over to the doorway of the bathhouse. The lanky, scrawny-faced holy man gasped when he leaned into the doorway and found himself less than a finger's width from Guthrum's nose.

"He has not come yet," the monk gasped, gulped, and continued. "The king has sent me to inform you, and to let you know that he is committed to his pact with you …"

"Shut up and go away," Guthrum growled.

The monk clamped his mouth shut, gulped again, and hurried to get to the chapel where the rest of his kind had gone.

"I do not understand their religion," Guthrum grumbled.

"It is not for us to understand," Kollskagg suggested. "It will all be obliterated when your father rules the whole island anyway."

Guthrum was sleeping when the lords began to arrive the following day. He woke to the sound of Rothgar and Kollskagg talking.

"The lords may be suspicious that the king is accepting their gifts and turning them away instead of holding feasts."

"Perhaps Aelle has heard of this and now will not come," Rothgar agreed.

Guthrum sat up. "How many have come today?"

"There have been five," Rothgar told him. "None are Aelle. Perhaps this plan is not going to work."

"Meanwhile we conveniently sit in a hole in the ground," Hroskell glared at the space around them. "He is glad to keep us down here with little food and barely any drink."

"Are we being played for fools, Rothgar?" Guthrum looked to the eldest member of their group.

Rothgar shook his head. "It could have worked, but I think it will not."

"Then we are done waiting." Guthrum got up and started up the stairs, and every one of the Norsemen jumped up to follow him.

"Guthrum! Rothgar!" Thorald hurried into the bathhouse. "A messenger, from home."

"Show me." Guthrum no longer cared if the Saxons saw him, so he urged Thorald to the top of the northern-most hill to watch a small group of Danes walking toward them. The troop consisted of only six men, and the one in the lead looked familiar.

"Halfdene," Guthrum said when he saw the man's stride.

He went out into the field to greet them, and wrapped an arm around his cousin, who was weary from his travels.

"What is so important that you have walked so far?" Guthrum asked as he turned them toward the vill.

"I wanted to come," Halfdene said. "We got your message that you replaced the old king. Your father is pleased."

"Good, the old goat needs something to smile about these days."

Halfdene looked at the ground, obviously troubled.

Guthrum stopped in their path and waited for him to speak. The five men who followed stopped as well and bowed their heads.

"My mother," Halfdene said. "She has completed her marriage contract."

Guthrum was silent while the words sank in. He lowered his head. "Freya," he prayed. "Take my aunt into your arms, hold Rayna as you hold my mother, for she was a dutiful woman."

Halfdene fought his tears. "If my sister were still alive," Halfdene said. "Or if I were still a child, she would have waited. She told me that I am old enough to live without her, and she had to follow my father to the spirit world so that he would not be alone."

"It was an honorable death, then. The gods will smile on her."

Halfdene shook his head. "She has left me completely alone," he muttered.

"You are not alone," Guthrum told him. "You are my brother. And it is good that you have come."

Halfdene wiped the last trace of sadness from his features. "Your father thought that you might have a use for me."

"Did my brother tell him that?" Guthrum asked. He was as eager as his father to find out if Ivar might develop the gift of sight, because such a gift would explain, and ease the anguish of his boneless limbs.

"I know not, cousin," Halfdene admitted. "He wanted me to wait until the funeral was over, then he sent me to you. Is it to be a battle?"

"If it comes to that, I can think of no one better to have standing at my side."

Halfdene smiled at him.

"Now what?" Rothgar grumbled.

"We will go see the new king and find out."

Guthrum walked them directly into the Hall of York where several lords were bowing at the feet of the new puppet-king.

"Ecgwerth!" Guthrum yelled out as he walked into the hall. "Call him to war! This game of yours is bringing no results!"

"Dear God," Ecgwerth muttered. "There are more of them." He cleared his throat and spread his arms, smiling at the influx of Danes. "My lord, if we just wait ..."

"I am done waiting." Guthrum grinned at him, and the ice blue of his eyes pierced the king, who dared not speak another word.

"Call my men ..." Ecgwerth's voice was strained. "Send runners in every direction to find Aelle while the army assembles. A few days, my lords, to gather our forces. We can ride out together, if it please my lords."

"Ride?" Guthrum sneered.

"A Saxon king cannot walk to a battle," Ecgwerth explained.

Guthrum walked up to the king, drawing back a fist to punch him in the face. "I know that!"

"Easy." Rothgar stepped forward, preparing to restrain Guthrum.

Ecgwerth gulped against his dry throat.

"We will ride," Rothgar agreed. "We need your largest horses."

"They will not move swiftly," Ecgwerth eked.

"Do you want ME to punch you in the face?" Rothgar asked.

"My lord," Ecgwerth lowered his head.

Guthrum and Halfdene laughed, and the rest of the Danes laughed along with them. They let the king feed and entertain them in the hall that evening, where they had to endure a lot of reading from their holy book, which was in Latin.

Rothgar grumbled. "What the hell language is this?"

"I learned it when I was younger," Halfdene told them. "My father gathered many slaves as tutors, and some from very far away. There was a place called Rome where this language was spoken. It was the greatest city in the world until it was sacked."

"Who sacked it?" Guthrum asked.

"A great band of warriors from an outland tribe."

"Danish?"

"No. No one knows where they came from."

"And no one knows where this Aelle came from either," Guthrum spat on the ground. "But I will send him to Hel."


	30. Chapter 30

The music was constant, so much so that Alfred's head was trembling with the sounds of the instruments, which had filled the hall for more than two weeks. They only stopped when the trumpets outside began blatting. Three blats. Everyone looked at Aethelbert, who smiled drunkenly.

"It must be the King of Mercia," he slurred. "My men spotted him yesss-terday."

The doors opened and Burgred rode into the hall and dismounted with several warriors at his back.

"Little Aethelbert!" King Burgred slapped him on the shoulder. "Your father would be proud to see you with such a fine wife!"

"King Burgred!" Aethelbert embraced him. "I am sorry that you were unable to make the wedding, but we have kept the party going!" Aethelbert swept his arm to indicate the men who filled the hall, and mead from his wooden cup sloshed onto the rushes on the floor. Aethelbert laughed and licked the sweet liquid from his fingers, grinning sheepishly. A drunken laugh rang out through the party guests, and Alfred seethed inward.

"I shall have a drink of that!" Burgred announced and took a ready cup from the nearest servant. "Let us drink to your marriage!"

The servants brought pitchers of mead and refilled Aethelbert's cup with the yellow drink. Burgred drained his portion and motioned the servant for more, then they called for meat, which was roasting constantly over several fires.

"Where is your beautiful bride?" Burgred asked.

Aethelbert glanced at the west end of the hall where the tapestries gave the blushing bride some privacy. The minstrels started their songs again, and the kings had to raise their voice to hear one another.

"She will join us for the evening feast and entertainment. I have actors and minstrels from all over my kingdom, and several of my warrior tell great tales. If you would like to hear about the fight at Egbert's Stone, my cousin Theobald is gifted at speaking."

"Wonderful!" Burgred clapped him on the shoulder. "And who is this pup? Aethelred?"

"Our youngest brother, Alfred." Aethelbert held out a hand to draw Alfred closer to the conversation.

Alfred did not hear. He was glaring at the minstrels, wondering how long it would be before he could nestle into a quiet corner and recite his morning prayers. Wihtred nudged him, and Alfred looked up at his brother, who was motioning him to come.

"Good day, my lord." Alfred bowed to King Burgred.

"Alfred?" Burgred studied his face. "You were not at my wedding."

"No, your highness. I was on the continent when my sister wed."

"The continent?"

"Alfred has spent time at the School of Charlemagne," Aethelbert boasted. "He has been to Rome twice."

"Have you?" Burgred re-appraised the scrawny, straight-haired boy.

"I was delighted when I heard of my sister's fine match," Alfred said, holding his hands behind his back as he stood up straight.

Burgred stared at him, then burst into laughter. "You are OF the continent!" he accused. "How much time do you take with your hair each day?"

Alfred felt a warm flush creep up his neck. He was a noble in his own kingdom, and he did not like being ridiculed by a fat old man, not even a king.

"Never mind that," Burgred waved a hand while bringing his cup to his lips. After a long drink, he paused and looked Alfred again. "Have I offended you, Lord Alfred?"

"Not at all, your highness," Alfred said, his voice checked.

He felt a rise of anger, more than he had ever known before. He was confused by it, and he wanted to control his expression, but the anger boiled and raged inside him. He was frustrated, and he wanted to be alone to meditate and pray, but the house was filled to the brim with people who all had expectations of him. He did not know who he was supposed to be now that he was home, and nothing at all was as he thought it would be.

"Alfred," Aethelbert said. "Our brother is passed out with drink, do take him to a stall where he can sleep."

Alfred bowed to his brother, a mannerism that he had learned on the continent.

"Is the boy mocking me now?" Burgred grumbled as Alfred walked away.

Alfred did not hear his brother's response. He did not care what they thought of him at that moment. He went to Aethelred and hauled him to his feet. Aethelred woke slightly, but his legs dangled limp and useless as Alfred dragged him to a stall and deposited him there, none too gently.

Alfred was in a huff, his cheeks red from the effort of dragging his elder brother. As he turned, he came face-to-face with Wihtred, who was watching him with a disapproving expression. Alfred paused in mid-stride. He was immediately ashamed of his behavior, and embarrassed, even though Wihtred never said a word to him.

Alfred spent the rest of the day quiet, and as far out of the way as possible. But the evening meal required his presence at the main hearth, where the kings were sitting together and Aethelbert's bride was beside him. Aethelred woke, looking still drunk as he stared, stupefied, into the flames, and absently accepted the food that was presented to him. Burgred glanced at Alfred, then looked away, and nothing was said about the prince's previous rudeness. The evening meal was followed by music, follies, and to the delight of the hall, stories.

"Tell us of your battle at the Stone!" Burgred called out, and Theobald obliged.

Alfred listened to the tale and noted that there was a complete exclusion of his own part, even though his brother had told him that he was the savior of that day. Theobald seemed to remember it differently.

"Tell a story of my father," Aethelbert called out at the end of Theobald's tale. "Where is Ser Wulfheard? Tell us a story of the lion, King Aethelwulf!"

Alfred sat up straight. Wulfheard was behind him, as usual, and moved to the front so that his face was illuminated by the hearth fire while he told story after story of the late King Aethelwulf.

Alfred listened to the stories about his father, a well-known hero. He had spent years wondering about his father, but Wulfheard had never talked about him, not in all the long, dark nights under King Charles' roof. Alfred felt wounded. He furrowed his brow and listened to stories about his father being brave in battle, or taming a wild horse, and he wondered why Wulfheard had not told him these stories before. He took a drink of his mead, and watched the old guard speak. He did not want to be angry with Wulfheard, but he was, and when the old man's tales came to an end, he caught Alfred's gaze, and registered surprise at the brooding that he saw there.

Alfred looked away, desperately wishing that the king would go to bed early that night so that he might have some time alone. The pressure of the day had pushed him to a limit that he had never known before, and he wanted to talk to God about it. Wihtred could provide no haven for him, either. Outside the walls of the Hall of Exeter, the grounds and outer buildings were crawling with more people. For a moment, Alfred missed his private cell in West Francia, but then he shook his head to dispel the thought of missing his childhood prison.

The evening celebration went on for hours, and Aethelbert seemed tireless as he entertained Burgred, saying little to his bride, who sat dutifully beside him, nodding and smiling to the people at their hearth, or softly applauding the entertainments of the evening, but she did not speak to anyone, not even to the female servants who sat with her.

Alfred fell asleep on the ground beside the hearth fire, listening to the voices of the people around him. He woke early and found the house quiet, so he got up and carefully navigated the snoring bodies on the floor to go to the altar and there he finally found a bit of peace for a moment in the crowded hall.

Wihtred woke, too, and they knelt together and folded their hands, but they only had a short reprieve before the kings got up, and the music and merriment began again. Alfred took a scroll and sat behind a pile of mead barrels, and tried to hide himself from Aethelred, who wanted to make him keep drinking. He thought he had the perfect hiding place until Wulfheard peered over the top of the barrels.

"How can you read in there? Come, my lord. We can practice fighting."

"Not now." Alfred curled around the scroll in his lap.

"Your brother insists that you learn to defend yourself. We will leave Exeter soon, and the road is only getting more dangerous."

Alfred groaned as he got up and followed his bodyguard to the field beside the hall. Wulfheard gave him a full-sized sword, and Alfred grunted under the weight of it.

"That is a man's sword, my lord. In a few winters, you will carry one at your side at all time."

"I am for the church, Wulfheard. You know that."

"Your father would want you to know how to fight."

Alfred looked down at the ground. "You know much about my father."

"I spent my life at his side.

"Yet you have never spoken of him to me."

"Take my short sword."

Wulfheard took the full-sized sword from Alfred's struggling grip and swung it easily over his shoulder with one hand. With the other, he passed Alfred the short sword that he carried, and still a third, a long sword, hung across his back at an angle. Alfred lifted the short sword with a grunt, wondering how Wulfheard could should the burden of so much iron.

"You never speak of my father."

"I did last night, my lord. You were there."

"Why have you never told me anything? Aethelbert said that my father wrote a letter to King Charles every day. I never saw any letters."

"Why would Charles show them to you?" Wulfheard adjusted Alfred's stance. "Why would he tell you anything? You were his captive."

Alfred dropped the point of the sword into the dirt and looked levelly at his guard.

"Raise your sword, Alfred," Wulfheard insisted. "You must defend yourself at all times."

Alfred glared at the ground, gripping the handle of the sword until his knuckles went white.

"Defend." Wulfheard tapped Alfred's sword with his own. Alfred let go of the handle and the sword dropped to the ground.

"Ouch!" Alfred put the side of his hand in his mouth. "I am for the church!" he raised his voice. "I do not need to fight! It is more godly for a monk to lay down his life than to pick up a sword!"

Alfred turned around to walk back to the hall. The out-of-doors was teaming with all classes of people and they all had little else to do but watch the altercation. Several important people had come out of the hall and away from the party to watch a lesson, and Alfred burned with shame when he saw their faces. Knowing that he had to apologize, he turned back to face Wulfheard, but a loud blat from the trumpet on the wall interrupted him.

A rider dashed through the clearing at a fast pace. Several armed guards rode out to intercept him, and Alfred could see their quick conference before they rushed the messenger to the hall. Everyone forgot about Alfred's botched lesson and hurried to the hall to hear what news was being brought.

"My lords." The messenger addressed the kings, just as Alfred and Wulfheard entered the hall. "I thank you for receiving me. I bring terrible news. The King of Northumbria is dead."

A gasp ran through the crowded room. Aethelbert's wife threw a hand over her mouth in dismay, but the two kings stood stoic, side-by-side.

"How did it happen?" Aethelbert demanded.

"He was killed by pagans in the walls of his own hall at York!"

Silence permeated the space, and then, all at once, the crowd erupted with gasps of shock, and loud opinions. Wihtred found him and put a hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"Your highness." Burgred turned to Aethelbert. "This news has changed my plans for the rest of your wedding celebration, but I wish you great bounty with your lovely wife."

"I understand." Aethelbert walked to the courtyard to see him off.

Many of the important lords came to the courtyard, saddled their horses and thundered away. When the house was halfway emptied, though it was still bursting at the seams, Aethelbert convened a war council with the Wessex lords. The council included his brothers, Aethelred and Alfred, who sat quietly while large, gruff men shouted to be heard over one another. King Aethelbert appeared slumped under the weight of their voices, but he listened to them until they could not shout anymore, then they were quiet, and they waited for him to speak.

"We will attack them with the ferocity of the lion if they dare set foot in Wessex. But we will not leave our borders."

Half of the men cheered, while some sank their seaxs into the wood of the table and screamed out in protest, with spittle flying from their mouths and resting on their beards. Alfred listened to them all, including Aethelred, who shouted out in support of their brother's decision, but Alfred did not shout for either side. His heart was too heavy with the crushing weight of dread.


	31. Chapter 31

The Saxons brought their plow horses and fastened blankets and bridles for the Norsemen to ride them. Ecgwerth ascended a large, sleek war horse, which stomped and skittered, eager to race forward. The new king had to hold the beast firm while they waited for the northerners to climb onto their mounts. Guthrum was not a stranger to riding horses, but the plow horses were taller than anything he was used to. He felt clumsy as he took his seat and kicked his horse into a walk, finding his balance on the beast's back.

Ecgwerth motioned to his captain. "Send riders in every direction," he ordered. "Scout for any sign of Aelle, and report immediately. We will be moving due north."

Guthrum and Rothgar glared at Ecgwerth, and Ecgwerth imagined what it would feel like to die of a knife-wound in his side. He considered that they might kill him with the blunt end of one of their large hammers, which might be better, because the death would be quicker. That night, as they camped in the lowlands, Ecgwerth dreamed about dying.

The following morning, they got back on their horses and Ecgwerth imagined taking his own knife and quickly ending his problems. He could die by his own hand, or he could die by the hands of the pagans, but he was certain that the end would be the same. He thought about his cousin bleeding out on the floor, and none of his guards could help him. They own us all, he thought, as he looked around the group of travelers who marched on through the gray, thick morning. The hilly plains muffled sound and the mist hid most things from sight. If he was quiet, and stopped breathing for a moment, Ecgwerth found it easy to imagine a world without himself in it.

A lonely wolf howled in the distance and the sound of it sent shudders through every man in the assemblage. The cold, hollow sound of the howl shivered down their backbones, and reminded the Norsemen of the supernatural stories from their homeland.

"Are the wolves here the same as the wolves back home?" Guthrum asked. "I've heard them every night, some very close, but I never see them."

"All wolves are the grandsons of Loki," Rothgar told him.

Guthrum knew the tale, as did every Danish child, but he smiled when Rothgar began to recite it.

"The god, Loki, had three children with Angrboda, the boder-of-sorrow. The first was Fenrir, the wolf. Then Jormungund, the serpent. The third child was Hel, a girl born with a beautiful face and a rotting body. Prophecy proclaimed that these three children would grow to cause great harm to the Aesir, so All-Father commanded them gathered. The gods captured the serpent, and All-Father flung him into the sea which surrounds the whole world, and he grew so large that he now lies at the bottom of the ocean, around the Earth, biting his own tail, and there he will remain until the days of Ragnarock.

"Hel was sent to Niflheim and given authority over nine worlds, on the condition that she would care for all who came to her, all men who died of disease or old age. The men who do not die in the glory of battle will go to her, where the souls live in a fortress of dampness, with sleet raining down outside, and there they will all remain, with Hel, until the final battle of the gods.

"All-Father took the wolf pup, and brought him home, but Tyr was the only god brave enough to care for the beast and bring him food. The beast grew larger and stronger every day, and the gods read the prophecies and knew that they had to fetter the wolf. They cast strong chains of iron, and shackled Fenrir.

"'This fetter is called Loeding,' All-Father told the wolf. 'If you can break it, you are surely the strongest beast on the Earth.'

"Fenrir only needed to strain against the links of the chains, and the fetter broke away. The gods made another, twice as strong, and they blessed it and named it Dromi, and All-Father said to Fenrir, 'break this, and you will win ever-lasting fame.' Fenrir struggled against the chains and clawed at them with his great paws. The fetter fell away from him and shattered on the ground.

"The gods had to come up with something better, for no iron forged could hold Fenrir. They had to call upon the world of the dark elves." Rothgar turned toward Ecgwerth to explain. "There are light elves in this world who are fairer than the sun to look upon, but the dark elves are blacker than night sky. Down to Alfheim to the dark elves, the gods sought a special, silken ribbon, which they presented to Fenrir.

"'A ribbon?' Fenrir asked them. 'After I have broken the strongest chains ever forged of iron, you think that a silken ribbon should hold me? Of what is this ribbon made?'

"'The ribbon is made from the sound that a cat makes when it moves, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of a fish, and the spittle of a bird. All-natural elements.'

"'I smell trickery. I will not let you put this fetter upon me unless I have good faith that this ribbon is indeed made of the natural world, as I am of the natural world, for then I shall have no problems breaking it, though such a puny task will not bring me fame.'

"'No trickery, Son of Loki,' All-Father promised him.

"'Then let one of the gods step forth,' Fenrir demanded, 'and put your hand in my mouth. If there is no trick, then you will come to no harm.'

"The gods looked at one another, but only Tyr was great enough to volunteer, and he stepped forward and put his right hand into Fenrir's mouth. All-Father placed the ribbon around the wolf, and Fenrir began to struggle, but the ribbon would not break. The harder the wolf struggled, the tighter the fetter became, and Fenrir knew that he had been tricked. He bit down on Tyr's hand, and took it off at the wrist, which is why we call it the wolf joint. Tyr lost his hand, but Fenrir lost his freedom. They drew the wolf's ribbon through a boulder, which is called Gjoll, and drove the boulder deep into the Earth. Then they took a huge stone, which they blessed and named Thviti, and sank it deeper still into the ground.

"The wolf gnashed his teeth and wanted to bite the gods, so they drove a sword through his jaw, driving the hilt all the way to the bone of his lower jaw and the point through his upper jaw, and thus they gagged him. The slaver from the wolf's mouth formed the river Von, and there Fenrir will lie until the days of Ragnarock."

The mist was heavy over the lime-green color of the valley floor, which Guthrum could only see through billows of thick, white fog. The lowlands were traversed slowly, as the riders and beasts tried to look out for sink holes, and bogs that could swallow a horse. Guthrum heard hoof beats in the distance, and he halted the procession.

"I hear it, too," Rothgar grumbled.

"My riders," Ecgwerth whispered, hopeful.

They waited in place as the sound of a horse came closer, and a Northumbrian soldier materialized from nothing to a silhouette, then came a few steps closer and they could see the man.

Kollskagg lowered his ready axe.

"What have you learned?" Ecgwerth asked to the rider, who stopped his horse and bowed before his king.

"Your highness, Aelle is to the west, and he knows that we are coming."

"You saw him?"

"He called down to me from the mountain."

Ecgwerth looked to his captors. "We go west," he announced.

"You go west," Rothgar corrected. "Fight the foe and win glory but do it with your own men."

"You will not help us …"

"I can help you to die," Guthrum offered. "Right here and now if you do not earn the crown that I placed on your head!"

The Saxons started to move again, glancing at the Norsemen with questioning, or reproachful expressions, until the last horse had past them. The large plow horses called after them, but the Norsemen held them still.

"This way." Rothgar turned his horse's head and kicked it into a walk, taking them back, almost the way they had come, to go around the mountain.

Thick mist turned to freezing rain, which splattered on Guthrum's face where it turned to patches of ice. He flexed his bare arms and, like the men around him, let the gooseflesh prickle without giving a hint of a shiver. 'We were born of the cold', Guthrum thought proudly. 'We are made of it'.

They could hear Ecgwerth's army moving through the cavern and knew that they were paralleling the Saxons. At one point, the two groups came so close to one another that Guthrum saw one of the dogs that had followed Ecgwerth from the House of York.

"There," he muttered.

Rothgar was uninterested. He was minding the path in front of them and trying to keep pace with the faster-moving Saxon tribe. The Norsemen moved away again from the dog and from the sounds of the other people. Guthrum glanced around nervously, wondering if the path on which they traveled could be classified as a path.

"Is this the right way?" Guthrum asked.

"I know these lands better than the native Northumbrians." Rothgar, leading them through foliage, turned in his saddle to speak over his shoulder so that Guthrum could hear him as they rode in single file with the trees pressing in on them from both sides. "There is a stronghold in the mountain there," he pointed. "That is where Aelle will be waiting, to keep height advantage over his enemy. There is a way into the stronghold, and there is another way out. This bastard is slippery, and he has escaped me more than once. But the way out is a narrow, rocky path with blind turns, which lets out into a small quarry. We will wait there, and they will not see us before our axes drive into their bellies."

"What about their horses?" Thorald interjected, almost shouting to be heard as he rode behind Guthrum.

"We will block their horses with our own," Rothgar said. "We will place the horses, tie them down, and the Saxon horses will stop. When the horses stop, we break their legs, take the riders, and kill them all."

Kollskagg laughed.

Guthrum shifted in his saddle, tired of riding. His legs ached from holding onto the sides of the horse, and his inner thighs were chafed. He wished that they could dismount and walk the rest of the way, but he could not deny the speed advantage from horseback. They took only one break in the day, and as they sat eating cold biscuits, they heard the echo of a sword hitting a shield.

"It has begun," Rothgar announced.

"If they kill Ecgwerth, and mow through him," Guthrum mused, "we will be on the wrong side of the mountain."

"That is so." Rothgar sat back on his haunches, chewing loudly and waiting for someone to question his logic.

Guthrum looked at the gathered party, but none of them was going to ask. "What if Aelle kills Ecgwerth?" Guthrum prodded.

"He may, and then we will have to hunt him," Rothgar admitted. "But Ecgwerth thinks that we wait behind him. He will fight to the last breath, which is more than I would bet for Aelle, who is known to run and hide, and pop up somewhere else a season later."

Guthrum glanced back at the mountain, where the grunts of men and the neigh of horses bounced off rocky walls and echoed to them.

"We are wasting time," Guthrum complained.

"Very well." Rothgar got up and they all struggled to get back onto their horses, none of them succeeding with any amount of grace, but they said not a word to one another about it and started back through the woods again. They came to the quarry, which showed no recent signs of hoof prints, and Rothgar listened to the path for only a moment, then got off his horse and staked the reins to the ground.

The ring of his hammer echoed through the quarry and Guthrum glanced at the stone path. He wondered how many men were with Aelle. Rumor had his numbers growing by the day, and every tale gave a wildly different account. He wondered how hard the Saxons would fight when they reached the quarry. With the fear of Ecgwerth on their tails, and the certain death of facing the Norsemen, Guthrum presumed that they would fight very hard.

'Odin', Guthrum closed his eyes as he dismounted his horse. 'Give me the strength to fight well, to win over my enemies, or die bravely and receive glory in your eye'.

Guthrum wanted more than that, though. He squatted down and staked his horse's reins while he thought about the tales that would one day be sung about him. His name would be one that would live on forever. He smiled to himself as he walked away from the horses, leaning casually next to the opening in the granite, which had been quarried as flat and smooth as a wall.

The sound of retreat horns blew over the mountain, and the noise of them descended through the hills and valleys, echoing down the escape pass that Rothgar hoped they would use. The other Norsemen finished staking their horses and the beasts stood in a confused line of tangled leads, snorting and stomping with unease as they felt the tremor of the Earth and the rushing onslaught of hooves.

Guthrum heard them coming, and he knew that the old warrior had been right. He grinned at Rothgar, who waited on the other side of the pass, hefting his hammer.

The army broke past them like a torrential rain. One moment, Guthrum was smiling at Rothgar, the next moment a blur of horse flesh, armor, and weaponry sailed before his eyes. The lead horse past them and ran into the block of terrified plow horses, and the beasts reared and screamed in protest.

Guthrum swung his axe into the nearest horse leg that he could see, and the beast came down in neighs of agony, dropping the hapless rider, who fell to the ground where he met Guthrum's axe as well as Thorald's sword and Kollskagg's hammer. The Saxons realized that they were under attack and fanned out with their weapons, but the Norsemen were too close, pressing in with their bodies and shields so that the horses had nowhere to go. Guthrum pulled out his dagger and slammed it into the thigh of a rider. Blood sprayed out like a geyser, soaking the Norsemen on the ground, who shouted out with vigor.

The horses spooked and pressed in on Guthrum, their strong chest muscles pushed his face, his shoulder, and then pinned his arm. Guthrum felt suffocated, and near panic. A breath of air to his right announced the death of one of the horses as the beast fell to the ground, and its rider leapt out of the saddle. Guthrum followed the rider out of the crush of horses, and he the rider turned on him, wary and armed. He swung his sword dangerously close to Guthrum's nose.

Guthrum looked at the wielder of the sword and a slow grin spread across his face as he advanced into the range of the sword, and his intended victim tried to back up, but he came against the staked plow horses, which pulled at their leads and screamed as they reared and pawed. There was no place for retreat. Guthrum lashed out with his axe and took the soldier's life, and then he took another, and then he saw Aelle.

The pretender wore the finest armor of anyone in the quarry that day, and he was pretentious enough to don a crown as well. Kollskagg was after him, but there were still two soldiers guarding him. Guthrum rushed to Kollskagg's side and they cut the guards down in a single swing. Aelle turned to flee, pressing his horse to pass the wall of plow horses, which moved around like ocean waves. The plow horses were neighing, terrified by the smell of blood, and all tugging at their leads.

Thorald appeared beside them, and then Rothgar, as the enemy bled on the ground around them. Aelle screamed to his horse, and the beast leapt forward, catching its leg on one of the tangled leads. Aelle's horse crumpled, its nose going to the ground under a broken leg. The rider was in disbelief. He jumped to the ground, keeping his feet, and stood staring at his horse long enough for Guthrum to get a hold of him. Triumph swelled in Guthrum's chest as he drew back his blade, but Aelle was quick, and slipped out of his cloak. He grabbed the broken lead of a plow horse, which was already moving away from the massacre. Guthrum threw the cape on the ground and went after Aelle, but the pretender was talented enough to mount a large plow horse while it was running, and, in a cloud of granite dust, he was gone.


	32. Chapter 32

King Aethelbert led the royal court out of Exeter, and his wife rode at his side. The Lady Giselda gave the impression of a porcelain statue as she sat atop her wild-looking horse. She wore an over coat that had been dyed red and orange, sporting a fire-breathing lion on a length of cloth, which was long enough to cover her and hang down over the back end of her horse. It would have been unseemly for the lady to ride a horse with the slit of its rear showing behind her, so the horse was delicately skirted to halfway down its haunches.

Alfred and Aethelred followed the king, and the king's guard surrounded the royal family. Alfred hated riding in the middle of a formation, as there was nothing to see but the riders, and nothing to hear but the horses chomping and stamping. He tried to block out the boring conversations of the people around him, so he mentally recited the first five books of the Bible to keep his mind entertained.

The group traveled to Dorset on the southern coast, cutting a colorful swath of commotion through the windy, grass-covered beaches. They came to Dorset where the peasants met them with wide, unblinking eyes. Some of the finer peasants stepped forward with gifts; a few silver coins, a small carving of a horse, flowers, and baskets of berries. Alfred waved to them, following the lead of his elder brothers, and they rode slowly through the steadily thickening mass of people.

"Back, peasants," Theobald warned them.

They made their laborious way to the Hall of Wareham, which had been freshly cleaned inside and out. The people, too, were in the act of scrubbing themselves thoroughly. Alfred looked to his brother, who was helping Giselda from her mount. She was the difference, he realized, and the people were determined to make a good impression. Alfred looked around at the servants, their skin red from the scrubbing, and he remembered his first day in West Francia. Since the initial, painful wash-down, he was always clean, especially in comparison with his own countrymen.

Alfred walked through the house, breaking free of the crowd around the king as he looked at the decorations. Alfred looked over a Bible scene that was painted across one long wall, with an animal and forest scene on the other wall. Alfred knew that this house was the last place that he had spent in the arms of his mother. He tried to conjure up a recollection of his early childhood. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of the room, trying to remember her, but she was lost to him, and a sadness settled over him as he walked through the hall. He came to a woven piece of cloth, hanging from a dowel that swung on a peg on the center column of the house. Alfred's feet drew him to the small embroidery, which almost looked like two people from a distance, but when he came close, it was only a confused tangle of woven colored thread.

"King Aethelbald." A hoarse whisper rasped from behind, and Alfred turned to see an old, haggard woman. "That there is a charm."

"Witchcraft?" Alfred asked.

"A charm to make his bride love him, but she never did. A broken charm."

"Why is it here?"

"No one has ever told me to take it down. And no one else dares touch it."

"I do not believe in witchcraft," Alfred told her. "I believe in Christ."

"Aye, a powerful wizard he was."

"Silence your blaspheme."

"Yes, my lord. I am only a simple old woman who does not know better. I would not dare question the will of so great a lord as yourself."

"Do not attempt to flatter me." Alfred glared at her and was gratified by the look of surprise on her face. "I know there is nothing great about me." He turned away from her and found Wihtred, who accompanied him to the altar at the end of the hall.

They did not spend long in Dorset, and then Aethelbert escorted them to the next house along the coast, which had also been thoroughly washed before they arrived. The people fell over themselves trying to get things for Lady Giselda, who sat quietly beside the lady of the house and watched her husband from across the room while the king entertained the men.

Summer faded into autumn, and the royal family continued to make their rounds through the kingdom. As they traveled and the leaves fell around them, Alfred noticed a thickening of Giselda's mid-section, and the women began to whisper that a royal birth was on its way. Aethelbert pretended not to notice. He was gentle with his young wife, and spoke to her in low, kind tones, but he did not speak of her condition.

Alfred spent most of his time attending his borther's court, and he took his lessons from Wulfheard when he was forced to, but his favorite hours were in the evening when the people were settled in and quiet. Even after the king had fallen asleep, Alfred sat with Wihtred at the altar of the various houses that they visited, and they sacrificed sleep for a few hours of privacy that they were able to steal for prayers, even though they had to put out all but one of their candles, and worship in the near-dark.

"The Lord will light our prayers from within," Alfred told his bishop.

Winter kept them long in Rochester, and the snow piled up around the house, but spring inevitably released them, and then Aethelbert led them south. The road to Canterbury was long and straight, another ancient construction of the Romans. The road was piled high and paved, with deep ditches dug on either side. The land beyond the ditches were rolling hills and deep valleys, which were difficult to traverse. Despite the rugged landscape, lines of peasants rushed out of the wilderness to meet them, standing on the other side of the ditches, or climbing closer. One woman came close enough to hand Alfred a flower, but she had to quickly retreat from the road because it was so high and narrow, and overcrowded with the king's guards.

"Do not take things from the peasant's hands, my lord," Wulfheard warned.

Alfred turned in his saddle to look at the old guard while he twirled the stem of the flower between his fingers. "What is the harm, Wulfheard?"

"Little harm, my lord," Wulfheard smiled at him. "But unseemly for the brother of the king to lower himself so. Let me take the items for you."

Alfred nodded, and turned forward, looking down at the flower in his hand before he tossed it on the road to be trampled by the hooves of the massive line of horses coming up behind him.

The road widened as they reached the edge of the city of Canterbury, where peasants lined the edges of the rocky hills upon which the city had been built. Large, cheering crowds of them waved and roared as Alfred had seen them on the continent. The smooth ground widened around the walls of Canterbury, and the peasants gave way to lords and ladies who glittered in jewels and fine vestments, all gathered in anticipation of Giselda's child. Ealdormen from all over the kingdom converged on Canterbury as soon as the weather allowed the journey, and they crowded the streets and the courtyard, but Theobald did not yell at them as he had the ragged-dressed people.

Alfred dismounted in the courtyard and was nearly swallowed up by the density of the crowd. Wulfheard hurried to his side and led him into the hall, keeping him from being bumped into as they made their way, but Alfred lost sight of Wihtred completely.

The lords and ladies from the multitude of houses had brought the own servants, who swelled the ranks of the servants in the main hall. A new corral had been built to keep all the horses, and the stables were cleared of animals so that people could sleep there. Each household also brought its own pack of dogs, which fought with one another, adding to the general air of calamity.

Canterbury Hall sat across the roadway from the church, and all the outbuildings were placed behind the two great buildings, so that the entrance was grand, and the house was even cleaner than Rochester had been. The king and his family were escorted to places of high honor, in the center of the house, which smelled of fresh, dry straw.

"Welcome, your highness!" shouted men of fine dress, all trying to get the king's attention, hoping that he would see them.

Torchlights battled the smoky dimness of the peat fires that burned in several hearths throughout the house. Servants tending the fires were covered in black soot, and they scurried through the hall, staying to the walls like rats as they fetched fuel and stoked the blazes. The servants who cooked the food were attired only slightly better, but the servants bringing the food and drink to the important people were clean, but for their bare feet, which were almost as filthy as those of the fire-stokers.

Alfred's jewels sparkled in the dim light, and the fabrics of his clothes were gleaming. His own feet were covered by leather boots, which were lined with rabbit fur, warm and soft. The people all around him were shouting close to his ear, hoping to be heard by his brother over the loud music. The hall was buzzing with activity and noise, and it reminded Alfred painfully of the king's wedding.

Alfred looked to Withred, who had found him in the crowd and stood nearby but could not get too close for the jostling crowd of gentlemen. Wihtred could understand Alfred's lament without any words passing between them. They both looked longingly at the altar at the end of the hall, but they could not go there. Alfred had to smile, be gracious, and remain in the center of the chaos of the Saxon court. The snow was falling lightly under the rising sun when they bedded down in the early morning. Alfred nearly fell into the straw, his head spinning as he laid down near the fire, saying the Prime through a drunken stupor in his mind, he drifted into a deep sleep.

He was walking on a dark trail, and he could hear rain pattering on the leaves all around him as thunder rolled in the distance. He was walking toward a shelter, but the landscape was confusing. Vines tangles his legs as he tried to move. The vines wrapped up to his knee and snaked under his tunic. The sky before him flashed with brilliant color and he heard a woman call out as if she were in pain. The cell had smooth gray walls, and he could see through a window that the bright colors outside were still flashing. He felt things that he could not explain, and a swirling noise, like a flock of birds, crowded his brain.

When Alfred awoke, he pulled back his blankets and was mortified to find that the dream had a physical affect on him. He went about the early, gray morning as quietly as he could, spending extra time in prayer, asking God to reveal the reason for the dream, because even though his body had gone quickly back to normal, he was unable to shake the concern that there might be something seriously wrong with him.

King Aethelbert helped his wife out of her bed that morning, and she groaned under the effort, heavy as she was with child. Her ladies rushed to help, and Giselda bravely gave them a smile, even though her eyes looked hollow and tired. The last months had been hard on her, even though Alfred never saw her do any physical work, and the king commanded her to rest all day while her servants darted around trying to keep her comfortable. Despite the pampering, Giselda never seemed well, and the entire kingdom waited impatiently to celebrate the birth of an heir.

Her time was near, one of the servant women whispered to another. But Alfred had heard them saying that for nearly two weeks. After her ladies dressed her, they helped Giselda lower herself to her knees before the altar. The king's wife settled her weight on soft blankets, folded several times over to provide her with some comfort. Still, her mourning prayers were short, and then her ladies helped her up again.

There were so many members of the clergy present in the house that day that Alfred did not see Wihtred until the bishop laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Good morning, my lord."

"Good morning, Wihtred."

"Did you sleep well?" Wihtred furrowed his brow with concern.

"Yes." Alfred blushed.

"And have you already prayed this morning?"

"Yes, Wihtred."

"Hm."

Alfred looked away, fearing that Wihtred was going to see it in his eyes. The dream haunted him throughout the morning. He tried to act casual as the royal family made their way from the hall, across the street to the church.

"We could have a tournament right here," Aethelbert said, looking over his shoulder at his brothers while Giselda held his arm.

Alfred concentrated on keeping pace with the rest of the family. He still limped a little, from when the Raider had tried to pull him off his horse three seasons before, a wound that would find no healing. The rain and the winter racked him, but he tried not to show it as they crossed the light crest of snow.

The church was old, and the walls were seeping and cold. Thick, colorful tapestries covered most of the interior, and candles and hearths burned throughout the building, pushing back the damp. The building was so crowded that everyone had to stand, even the king. Lady Giselda leaned heavily on her husband, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

Archbishop Cnu began the opening psalm, reciting in Latin. Alfred stood in the front row and recited the prayer under his breath. He watched Father Cnu, and when the archbishop raised his hands, Alfred splayed his fingers, wanting to reach up to heaven as well, wanting to reach up to God. He closed his eyes, feeling the Holy Spirit swirling around him, as he always did when he was deep in prayer. Alfred knew beyond a doubt that God was real, and that god was with him. He could feel His presence, as he had since he was a boy. Alfred was relieved that the embarrassing dream had not driven the Almighty away from him.

A gasp from Giselda halted the archbishop in mid-sentence, and Alfred turned to look just as a gushing whoosh of water rushed from under her dress and onto the floor. Giselda lost her footing and Aethelbert caught her before she fell to the ground. He lowered her carefully onto the rushes while women gasped and rushed forward, and the monks hurriedly began to clear the church of male specatators, evacuating themselves as well.

Alfred was scooted out along with Aethelred, and even King Aethelbert was pushed from the building. Aethelbert stood looking at the closed doors as if he had not yet puzzled together what was happening.

"Come to the hall, your highness," Theobald suggested.

Aethelbert waved him away. Instead, he paced the length of the church, keeping a wary eye on the door.

"Come, Lord Alfred," Wulfheard said. "Let us practice with swords."

"Let the boy eat," Wihtred advocated in his soft voice. "It will be a long day, and he needs his strength."

"Bah." Wulfheard took off his short sword and pressed it to Alfred's chest. "There are days at a time when a soldier does not eat. He must learn to rely on his own strength, and not on the strength of bread."

Alfred's arms drooped under the weight of the cast iron weapon. "But Wulfheard, I am for the ch- …

"My lord." Wulfheard lowered his voice and his expression turned deadly serious. "Unsheathe the sword."

Alfred realized he was not going to get out of the lesson. He set his jaw and pulled the sword from its scabbard. It was not sharp, not on its edges nor at the tip, but it was heavy, and with the speed of a horse behind it, and strong arms to wield it, the Saxon blade could take a man's head off in one blow. Alfred held the handle and let the tip rest in the snow as he handed the sheath to Wihtred and faced Wulfheard in the roadway between the church and the great hall.

Aethelbert paced in front of the church door, but he looked over at Alfred, who stood in the middle of the street with a crowd of bored gentry gathering around him. Alfred gulped against his dry throat. He looked to Wihtred, but the bishop could not save him from his public humiliation.

"Lift the sword, my lord," Wulfheard instructed, light-hearted.

Alfred did as he was told, but sword play was far more work than play, and he was exhausted and cold, sucking frozen air into his lungs. He panted and sweated under Wulfheard's tutelage while being cheered on by the wealthy merchants and lords, who had nothing better to do. When Wulfheard decided that Alfred was done, which was an hour after Alfred had already realized it, Gwald and Aethelred took the center stage, and Alfred stood back to watch his brother. Aethelred was only a few years senior, but proficient with his weapon. Alfred was amazed every time his brother lifted the sword over his head and held it without trembling, striking with precision. Wihtred looked at Alfred with an expression of pity, and Alfred felt shamed.

The servants brought out honey-baked oat cakes and weak ale, passing the refreshement first to the king, who refused them. Aethelred was too busy to eat, so they served Alfred, Wulfheard, and Wihtred before the others were served in the order of their social ranking. Many of the people bit into the cakes as soon as they got them, but Alfred remembered to pray, and to thank God for nourishment, and for quieting the grumbling of his stomach.

When Aethelred finished sparring, Aethelbert broke his vigil by the door and called to Theobald for a match. Alfred's toes froze in the snow, but he stood with the rest of the gentry and applauded the king's fight. By mid-day, Aethelbert's face was glistening in the sun, and the lords begged him to go with them on a hunt, but the king refused, and went back to the church door to pace.

Aethelred and Alred took turns pacing or sitting with their worry-sick brother, and the entire kingdom waited for the door to open. None of the men went hunting, and even the dogs stopped fighting, feeling the edgy anticipation of the humans around them. It seemed to Alfred that God had even stopped the snow from falling while they waited. The sun crossed its zenith and sank in the west, and the dark blue of the eastern sky showed them the first twinkling of evening stars. At last, the door of the church opened, and the Lady of Canterbury stepped out of the building with tears in her eyes and blood stains on her gown.

"Your highness." She shook her head sadly.

Able to bear it no longer, Aethelbert moved her aside and rushed into the building. His wail of grief echoed through the walls and Alfred knew, without going in, that Giselda was dead. He learned later that her child, a boy, was born dead. Alfred wanted to cry for the soul of his dead nephew, but no tears came to him. He prayed for the departed, but it seemed to him that all his tears had been used up during his time in West Francia, and now his heart was like a stone.


	33. Chapter 33

The royal family donned dark clothes, and the women covered their faces with ash. Even the snow refused to sparkle, and only sat gray on the ground, and the old men grumbled that the winter held on longer than the previous year. Meanwhile, King Aethelbert moved stiffly and spoke formally as he led his brothers from one vill to another, hearing the problems of his kingdom and enforcing his laws. Snow turned to spring rain as they made a complete tour of the interior downs and the banks of the River Thames. As much as he wanted to avoid it, Aethelbert brought them back to the Hall of Canterbury in the summer.

Alfred's horse sloshed into the vill, head down, sodden and sullen in line behind Aethelred, who followed Aethelbert, who rode with Theobald always at his side. Many horses, squires, and banners were visible from the road and people crowded the doorway of Canterbury Church, where they waited in the mud and drizzling rain to catch a glimpse of the king and his fabulous entourage. Huddled faces peered from the doorways and windows of the peasant's hovels as the royal procession approached under the call of the king's trumpeter. Aethelbert pulled his horse to a halt and looked away from the waiting tangle of business.

"Where, your highness?" Theobald's tone was soft and patient.

Aethelbert turned his horse's head and clucked to the beast, which whinnied in return. The young king led them to the grave mounds behind the church, where he dismounted. His horse lowered its head, as if in reverence of the sacred place.

"Aethelred, Alfred." Aethelbert motioned to his younger brothers.

The boys dismounted and sloshed through the puddles to stand next to their brother, who was still, with one hand upon the large boulder that sealed the tomb.

"Our mother and father are here," Aethelred whispered to Alfred.

The entire army stood quiet before the giant mounds of earth, which looked like round, natural hills with grass, flowers, and a few trees growing over them. Belied only by their geometric perfection, the man-made hills held the bodies of the most important Saxon people. Aethelbert wept for his departed wife. Alfred prayed, and was relieved when the king finally led them away from the mounds, and they walked their horses past the church and into the great hall.

The main hearth fire roared and crackled its invitation, and Alfred was grateful to stand in front of it and thaw his toes. A servant brought clean clothes for the royals first, then for Theobald, Gwald, and Wulfheard, and then for all the men further away from the king in the order of their importance. Wihtred disappeared from Alfred's sight for only a moment while the young lord removed his sopping tunic. No privacy was afforded in the large, one room hall, and Alfred undressed in front of all the people, as did his brothers. Alfred looked down to unfold his fresh tunic and noticed three hairs on his chest. He blushed crimson and quickly covered himself with a clean shirt. He knew that all men had hair on their chests and that it stood to reason that he, too, would grow it, but somehow, he had never really considered the fact that he was going to be any different.

The hall was filled with distractions, and Aethelred moved away from the bustle of the crowd as soon as he was changed. Alfred, too, found that a smaller fire would provide more comfort than a roaring one, which was crowded with roaring men trying to gain the king's ear. Withred came to him at the smaller fire and Alfred smiled to see his friend. As they had learned to pray in crowded halls, they crossed themselves right there at the cooking fire and began their prayers.

As he prayed, Alfred's mind drifted and he meditated deeply, listening for the words of God instead of filling the prayer time with his own thoughts. He was acutely aware of his own breathing, and of the warmth of the fire on his face. He could feel the comforting presence of Wihtred, even though he kept his eyes closed. The sounds of animals, people, and wooden spoons clunking against the side of metal pots, all came to him, and Alfred breathed the pungent smells of the house, of the many people and animals that called the hall their home. All the halls belonged to the king, but none of them were home to the king, or to his brothers.

The air of the room swirled around him, and Alfred retreated deeper into his own mind. He felt weightless, almost as if he could rise out of his own body along with the heat of the fire, and drift above the din of the room. He felt that he was above them, looking down at his own breathing body, lit softly by the cooking fire, his hair wavering in the fire's wind.

His mind's eye did not see all the people around him, and he reasoned that the peat smoke was thick. He sensed the king at the main fire, discussing farming and battling. He did not have to see the men to know that Theobald was sitting at the king's right hand. Gwald and Wulfheard, too, sat close to the king while they listened intently to his words. Alfred mentally searched the room for Aethelred, who was not among the council. Instead, he was entertaining himself with a servant girl, and the well-born young ladies of the court were discussing him at the next fire over. "He might be the heir-apparent, but he sullied himself with all the peasants." "What wife would want to be married to that?" "And he is to marry in less than a year. I hope for her sake that he acts like a prince by then." Alfred knew the young women's names but had never spoken to any of them. Their fathers were nearby, if not at the king's hearth, and they were all watching to make sure that no one spoke to their treasured female children, who could be valuable under the right conditions. The servants created a buzz around the important people as they moved from place to place, and the dogs followed close at their heels. The dogs were most loyal to the house servants, Alfred noted, and the servants made sure that the dogs were fed.

A woman walked outside where the spring rain had turned into fat snowflakes, and two dogs followed her while she grabbed an armload of firewood and turned back quickly. "Let's get back, boys." She spoke to the dogs. "It's cold again."

Alfred did not feel the cold. The woman and her canine companions went back into the warm glow of the hall, but Alfred turned to look up at the never-ending blanket of sky above him, and he sense his proximity to God. He felt for a moment that he could will himself to fly upward, further and further, until he reached heaven itself among the stars, but then he saw that the stars were infinite, and no matter how far he flew, he was still among them.

A loud crash jolted Alfred awake, even though he had not been sleeping. He opened his eyes slowly and focused on the frantic cook, who had dropped an entire pot of soup, and the dogs were madly trying to clean up hot bits of meat as broth soaked into the rushed that covered the floor. He looked near tears as he picked up the pot and saw that there was nothing of the meat to save. He shook with fear, and Alfred felt every bit of his emotion.

"Steady," Alfred whispered.

The head cook came from across the hall to inspect the commotion, and Alfred could see that he was mad. Alfred stood up, feeling weightless after the strange meditation, and more serene than he could remember ever being.

"Steady," Alfred repeated, looking up at the cook who bore down angrily on the scene. "I spilled the pot."

Silence fell over everyone in the corner of the hall, and the absence of noise was noted by the others around them, who stopped their conversations to watch the spilled soup incident. Even the dogs had finished snapping up their unexpected treats and had become silenet.

"But, my lord," the guilty servant shook his head, still holding the pot as evidence of his own misdoing. "I spilled it, I tripped here, and nearly fell."

"No." Alfred looked from the servant the head cook. "I spilled the soup. I apologize."

The cook knew that he was lying, but he had not authority to say so. "It matters not, my lord, as long as your person has not been burned or harmed in any way."

"No one is hurt," Alfred assured him.

Then the cook looked back at his subordinate, who trembled. "We shall serve the bread first."

The servant nodded and back away, and the crowd of people hid him as others gathered around to view the incident. "What happened?" asked several new spectators.

Alfred watched the servants move away in different directions, going about their own tasks. Alfred looked at Wihtred, who had silently observed. Around them, in hushed voices, people started telling the tale of what had happened to any late comer who wanted to listen. They were quiet, but Alfred could hear them.

"Saved him a good beating." "Like a saint, he was." "The clumsy oaf spilled the soup. Again."

The chatter was broken with the sound of a trumpet call, which announced a rider.

"What could it be?" King Aethelbert looked first to Theobald, because he was as close as usual to the king's face. Theobald nodded to one of his own servants, who darted outside to gather the news. The servant jumped onto a horse and rode out of the wide doors as quickly as the sleepy animal could carry him. Everyone in the hall watched and waited.

"Here they come!" shouted a boy near the door.

Theobald's servant came dashing back into the hall. "A letter for his highness!" the servant announced. And two strides behind him rode the letter-carrier himself.

The rider was a Mercian soldier, gleaming in well-polished steel. He leapt from his horse and pulled off his helm, reavealing golden hair. With the helm in one hand, and a rolled parchment scroll in the other, the Mercian strode into the hall. "I am to put this in the hand of the King of Wessex," the soldier announced.

Aethelbert got up from his seat beside the fire and took the letter, which he then handed over to Bishop Aethelheard. The old bishop took the scroll with trembling hands and broke the seal with effort. He unrolled the parchment and squinted at the words. He held the parchment close to his eyes, then moved it far away from his face, but he could not see well enough to read the scroll, and he shook his head sadly.

"Bishop Wihtred can read it," Alfred suggested.

Aethelbert nodded his permission and Wihtred got up to retrieve the scroll. There was not a whisper among any of the people, high-born or low, within the walls of the hall. Everyone had turned to watch the rider, and the scroll that he carried as it was passed from one hand to another. Wihtred took the paper and looked over the words, then a smile spread across his face.

"The Lady Aethelswith of Mercia has brought a son into the world," Wihtred announced. "The boy has dark hair and a hearty cry."

Goosebumps ran up Alfred's arms. He closed his eyes to thank God that his sister survived childbirth.

"How is she?" Aethelbert edged closer to Wihtred, looking at the marks on the paper that he could not understand. "Does the letter say if she is well?"

"Both mother and son are well," Wihtred assured, his smile so broad that his face appeared ready to crack.

"We must go and see her," Aethelbert said to Theobald, who prompltly turned away to make the king's travel plans.

"A grandson of the old lion," approved the Ealdorman of Canterbury.

"So," Theobald turned back from his servants, who scurried away to carry out his orders. "Your highness's own children, with God's grace one day, will have an elder cousin to show them the ways of life." Theobald wrapped an arm around Aethelbert's shoulders and squeezed him. "There is a lord in East Anglia with a very pretty daughter. Perhaps your highness would like to …"

Aethelbert glared at him, then looked back at the flames of the hearth.

"Your highness," interjected the Ealdorman of Canterbury. "It is time for you to start thinking …"

"It is too soon," Aethelbert shook his head.

"You must produce an heir," the ealdorman pointed out.

"Aethelred will marry before I do again," Aethelbert told them, shaken to his core with grief. "His marriage contract has already been signed."

Alfred glanced at Aethelred, who seemed little affected by the news, and Alfred could surmise that he already knew about the contract.

"Your highness," sighed the ealdorman, "she has been dead for near six months. You lay a great burden on your younger brothers if they grow to adulthood before you have an heir. There could be contentions about the line of succession if you have no sons. Your highness see reason! For the sake of your kingdom, of Wessex, and of the longevity of the House of Cerdic!"

"What the ealdorman means to say," Theobald interjected, his tone hostile and reprimanding as he looked down at the older, but shorter, lord. "Is that if you do not have a son and name him your heir before Aethelred becomes a man, then your own brother might kill your issue when you finally do have one, and perhaps yourself as well when he sees his inheritance threatened. Is that right, Ealdorman?" Theobald sneered. "You do not seem to realize that this is a dynasty of brothers, a family of true blood. No such threat shall ever exist. The king has already done his duty to this kingdom when he married the Lady Giselda, may her soul rest in peace."

Alfred crossed himself, as did every man around the king's fire.

"Now he mourns her, and we should give the king a year for mourning. Is that acceptable, your highness?"

"I killed her," Aethelbert said.

"My lord," Theobald clucked. "No."

"I killed her when I put the child in her," Aethelbert told them, tears streaming down his face. "She was too young, or too small. She could not handle it. And it is my fault, I tell you! I will never marry again. I will never have an heir. Aethelred is the future king."

The mood of the evening became weighted, and the conversations took on a lower pitch. The drinking was subdued, and the few pockets of laughter that rose up were quickly quelled. Alfred was able to steal away to the altar at the back of the hall, and Wihtred and Wulfheard joined him for several quiet hours. Alfred mentally recited his Latin liturgy, and as he finished, he started thinking again about that floating feeling that he had during prayers earlier, and he wondered how a dream could occur even though he was awake, for he had been able to look down at his own resting body, and he could see the pink flush of his cheeks, the muss in the back of his hair that he could not otherwise see, and all with perfect clarity of detail. It was no dream; he knew that he had been outside of his own body.

If he had continued floating high above the island, he might have seen the destruction going on in the north, where fires blazed and the conquering Northerners subdued their Saxon subjects, and returned their slaves to chains, sending the previously brave Aelle the Second into hiding, and firming their grip on the northern kingdom of the Saxon island.


	34. Chapter 34

The entirety of the Kingdom of Wessex turned out at Westminster for the wedding. Horns blew and dogs barked among the neighing of horses, the rumbling of cart wheels as supplies were brought in, all drown out by the voices of the people who crowded the hall, the church, the yards, and all the buildings in and around the town. A few nobles from the surrounding kingdoms were there to represent their kings, as King Burgred of Mercia was absent, as well as King Edmund of East Anglia. In the prominent center of the commotion was the royal family of Wessex. King Aethelbert, a widower, Prince Aethelred, the groom, and Lord Alfred, who would gladly have been any other place in the world other than the middle of a celebration.

"My king sends his apologies," said an ambassador for the eastern kingdom. "King Edmund is quite distracted with the raids in the north of our lands."

"Has the devil sent them to torment us?" asked the ambassador for Mercia.

Alfred sat next to the fire and plucked at the straw on the ground while the men spoke. He did not have to look up to know who was talking; he knew the ever patient and steady voice of the king, or the impatient, petulant interruptions of Aethelred. Alfred knew the voice of his own bodyguard, Wulfheard, who was the oldest of them all, and Alfred imagined he was the oldest man on the island. He listened to the voices of the lords of the Wessex manors, some of the higher clergy, and of course his cousin, Theobald.

Alfred looked around the hall, which sat downhill from the church, where the ceremony was scheduled to be held the following day. No one seemed concerned with the particulars of the wedding, the groom least of all. Aethelred was interjecting again, and Alfred could hear his opinion being disregarded by the other men. Aethelred was noticing, too, and it angered him. He got up and walked away from them to procure a drink and some solitude. Alfred watched Gwald follow him and stand in the shadows with the jaded prince where they could be by themselves, agreeing with one another.

Alfred saw Wihtred among the crowds of faces outside of the king's firelight. The round-faced cleric gave him a slight nod of the head, and Alfred turned back to the fire, where the Lord of Canterbury was urging the king to join Burgred and go to war, all the while the ambassador from East Anglia was begging for everyone to keep a cool head and not provoke the invaders further.

"They are not Christian!" insisted the Lord of Canterbury, a white-haired man. "They deserve no mercy from Wessex!"

"In your haste," insisted the man from East Anglia, "you will anger the damn devils and they will fall full force upon OUR kingdom. They have devoured Northumbria, who is to say they will not do the same to the rest of us?"

"They will not succeed in Mercia!" Insisted Mercia's representative.

"Nor in Wessex!" shouted Lord Westminster.

King Aethelbert listened to them all, as he tended to do, not saying a word but letting them all make their arguments. It was a long night. Alfred left the main fire when hours had seen nothing resolved, and men grew angrier with one another. As he stepped away, the warmth he had soaked in started to dissipate, and he thanked God for the comfort of warm fires. Wihtred met him and wrapped him in a blanket, trapping some of the fire heat and holding it close to him. They spoke not a word to one another but went to the altar at the back of the house where they tried to use their prayers to drown out the talk of war and death.

Alfred thought that his brothers should spend some time in prayer as well, as they both had larger things to worry about than he. Aethelbert had a kingdom to run, and Aethelred would be a husband by the following day. Alfred reflected on the comparative simplicity of his own life, and he thanked God that he was born the last son, the son that his father had promised to the church. Alfred took solace in knowing that he would not have to carry their burdens.

Sleep came late that night, and the morning came early. Alfred woke with the rest of the house and prepared for the ceremony by washing his hair and donning the new clothes that had been prepared for him. He was unaware that he was growing into a dashing young man and viewed himself as awkward. Alfred had never spoken to any of the women of the court, nor did he have any interest in women at all, but as he walked up the hill and into the church, past crowds of common and well-dressed people, he could feel eyes upon him. It did not occur to him that he was the last royal bachelor in the kingdom.

Alfred and his brothers looked like their father; chestnut hair, thick eyebrows and deep-set, blue eyes. They were all tall and athletic. They were dressed in the finest clothes as they took their places by Bishop Aethelheard at the altar. Alfred looked over the sea of lords, ladies, and clergy as the choir began low and haunting. Alfred bowed his head and let the music wash over him.

The choir came to a pause, and all in the room grew quiet. Alfred lifted his eyes to watch the entrance of the lady, Wulfrida, who would marry his brother. She was the thirteen-year-old daughter of a former lord of Northumbria, who had been displaced by the pagans. Alfred did not know the Northumbrian lord, but he heard the tales of how the lord had fought to avenge King Aelle the First after the pagans murdered him, and he had unsuccessfully tried to kidnap young King Edbert from their grasp, but in the end he failed and was left landless when Edbert was killed. The lord had no money to pay his men, whose lands were also taken, so he came to King Aethelbert with nothing to offer but his young daughter. Aethelbert had accepted and awarded the lord a modest vill in Westminster with the promise that his original lands would one day be restored.

King Aethelbert stood up at the beginning of the ceremony to bless the union, and every eye in the church was trained on him. He gave his blessing loud and clear, and the audience cheered for him, and the wedding commenced. Alfred watched him and his heart swelled with pride to be the brother of such a kind and worthy king. Alfred knew that the feeling he had for his brother was love, unwavering to the point of worshipful. He did not feel the same way about the brother who was taking his vows. Towards Aethelred, Alfred felt responsibility, as if he were not the youngest of them.

The bishop said the prayers, and he bound the hands of the bride and groom together. She was a child, and he not much older. Alfred worried that his brother would fidget, because he was never good at standing still, but Aethelred followed through with dignity to the completion of the ceremony, and the wedding party led everyone out of the church and down the hill where an ox was roasting over an open pit.

Alfred found Wihtred as soon as he could and disentangled himself from the nobility. He sighed a breath of relief, but his path was impeded by a pretty girl who was a few years older than he.

"Pardon, my lord." She curtsied.

Alfred walked around her and hurried away without a word.

"May God bless the union of the prince and his lady," she called after him.

Alfred did not want to be rude, but he did not know how he was supposed to behave around women. He stopped walking and looked over his shoulder at her.

She continued, flushed with encouragement. "It was a beautiful ceremony, was it not?"

Alfred could not understand why she was speaking to him. This had never happened before. "Yes, my lady," he answered.

She was visibly thrilled by his response. "My lord, I must not brag, but I made a custard pie for the celebration. I would be honored if I could bring some to you."

Alfred's brows knitted together in confusion. "I suppose …"

"You will like it, I am sure. I know that you like custard, my lord. I know a great deal about you."

Alfred was more uncomfortable than he had ever been before, and the horror was mirrored on his face, but she did not notice.

"I probably should not say, but … many of the ladies say that you are the brother that one would want as a husband."

Alfred froze in fear. "I – uh …"

He looked for Wihtred, who was hiding a smile behind his sleeve. Alfred scowled at the cleric, then looked back at the girl.

"You are the daughter of the Lord of Westminster," Alfred informed her. "Your name is Acca."

A sparkle danced in her eyes. "You are so intelligent, my lord."

"You must have more interesting people to talk to."

"No. I do not."

"Do you have ladies who tend you?" Alfred looked around, noticing for the first time that she seemed alone, a strange condition for a noblewoman.

"They are there." She motioned to a group of women who were studiously trying not to stare at them.

"They should be with you," Alfred pointed out. "Your father would not like you speaking privately with me."

"Everyone knows how pious you are, my lord. You are sweet, like … a kitten."

"A kitten?" Alfred was only growing more confused by the conversation.

"And the good bishop is here to chaperone us," Acca pointed out, smiling at Wihtred.

Wihtred blushed and looked away. Alfred glared at him; he was being no help at all.

"I must speak with my brother," Alfred decided, and turned to walk away.

Acca was undeterred and walked beside him. "You see these decorations?" she pointed to the hall all around them. "It does not usually look like this. Usually Westminster is drab. I like the celebration, and all of the people."

"Hm."

"There is your brother, the king, but is that the brother with whom you wished to speak? There is the groom over there. His lady is wearing such a lovely dress. The ceremony was lovely, and the flowers were lovely, do you agree?"

"Hm." Alfred looked back to Wihtred, who was following a few steps behind, giggling. Alfred shook his head.

"You do NOT agree?" Acca was excited. "What did you think could have been done better? The flowers? The dress? Is it the food for the celebration?"

Alfred had lost track of what she was saying, but she earnestly wanted him to answer.

"If you will excuse me," Alfred took a few more steps, but she still followed.

"I told my mother that there should be colorful table covers, but she said that all of the blankets were needed to cover people when they slept. I told her that we should be weaving twice as much. We have two looms that only need repairs and we could have made twice as many. The weaving ladies have gone to milking and churning because the looms have been in disrepair for so long. Do you not think that the looms should be repaired? They are quite necessary, are they not? Do you not agree, my lord?"

Alfred stopped walking, took a deep breath, and then turned to her. "I really must speak with my brother."

"Which one?"

"The king."

"He is there," she patiently reminded him. "Speaking to my father! Let us go."

She took him to the king and the lord of the house, and her father beamed with joy when he saw them walking together. Aethelbert raised an eyebrow, but it was only for show, as he could read the defeated slump of Alfred's shoulders, and the tittering of Bishop Wihtred just behind him.

"Should we start planning another wedding, your highness?" grinned the Lord of Winchester.

"Not just yet, Lord Aelhear," Aethelbert said, one corner of his mouth turning up in an amused smile. "My brother is on his way to Rochester after the wedding celebration."

"Rochester, your highness?" Alfred was surprised.

"To study at the monastery there," Aethelbert told him. "Our father saw in you a propensity for study, that is why he took you to Rome, and sent you to the School of Charlemagne. He was prophetic to see it in you when you were so young."

"Thank you, your highness." Alfred could have breathed a sigh of relief if Acca was not still so close to him. The thought of being forced to marry someone like her made him feel exhausted.

The wedding celebration lasted a month, and there was no place in the vill that Alfred could go where Acca could not track him. Much to Alfred's dismay, other young ladies made excuses to speak to him as well. Alfred was desperate to make them stop, and finally found a moment to speak to the king alone, but for Theobald.

"Your highness," Alfred said.

"What is it, Alfred?" Aethelbert asked, his nose red from drink, and his eyes pink from lack of sleep.

"I must ask you to say something to your lords about their daughters."

Aethelbert and Theobald laughed out loud.

"I had noticed that you have a following," Aethelbert said, trying to control his laughter. "Indeed, the fathers of the girls have noticed, too."

"They should speak with their daughters." Alfred had a serious problem, and he could not understand why the adults found it funny.

"Their fathers have spoken to me," Aethelbert told him. "Several have offered marriage contracts. What do you think of that?"

Alfred flushed. "That would be impossible."

Aethelbert and Theobald burst out laughing, slapping Alfred on the back, and then retreated to a fire where drinking and merriment continued. Alfred got no relief until they were mounted up to leave Westminster altogether. For Alfred, the city and its church had meant peace and prayer, but after Aethelred's wedding, he was not sure that he would ever be able to think of it the same way.

The royal caravan, with the addition of Lady Wulfrida and her attendants, began their parade out of town, and the women of the court shouted and threw flowers, but Alfred looked directly ahead, relieved.

As they left the city, Aethelred and his wife, and a large group of the party, broke off and started west. Alfred watched them go as he jogged his horse to catch up with Aethelbert.

"Your highness," Alfred called as his horse came alongside the king's. "Why are we going different ways?"

"Because Aethelred is a man now, and he needs to take the time to learn his new role. You are going to study, Alfred. You have the makings of a wise and learned man. I know that our father thought so."

"I do not remember our father," Alfred admitted. The truth of it plagued him, and he hated himself for forgetting. He was sure that a more dutiful son would never forget.

"You were young when last you saw him. He was proud of you, Alfred."

Alfred nodded and looked straight forward as they led their horses up the road to Southwark, and then turned east along the Thames.


	35. Chapter 35

The day was clear and unusually bright. Sun dappled the water and reflected its rays back into Alfred's eyes.

"The Greater Abbot of Rochester awaits you," Aethelbert told him. "And Wihtred will attend you there, as well as Wulfheard and two others whom I have chosen as your servants. I will continue to the estuary, and there meet with the King of East Anglia. The king has begged my attendance, so I will not linger long in Rochester."

"Yes, brother."

Alfred pondered what it meant to be away from his brother, and his mind floated back to his time in West Francia. He rode in silence until the forest opened into a clearing and they could see the Hall of Rochester.

The road quickly filled with peasants and merchants who moved to the edges of the road to be out of the way of the parade. Alfred could hear compliments to their horses, the fabric of their tunics, and the sparkling jewels that adorned them. Wildflowers were thrown at the feet of their horses, and children held out apples and other treats for the people. Alfred ignored them as much as he could, following the line of horses into the courtyard of the house, where the average people were not allowed.

Alfred dismounted and stayed behind Aethelbert as much as he could. Bishop Wihtred and Ser Wulfheard got off their horses and stood behind him, which was both a way to bolster his confidence, and a way to block him from jumping back on his horse and running away. Alfred had never run away before, but he often thought about it. The idea of absolute freedom was enticing, but the thought of it terrified him with paralyzing fear.

He looked around the courtyard filled with the people of the Rochester House, from the lords to the servants. He straightened his back, lifted his chin, and assumed his part in the pageantry as the Lord of Rochester greeted the king.

"Your highness!" the fat lord grinned and embraced the king. "Bless God for bringing you to us! And my lord," he turned to Alfred. "You have grown into a man!"

Alfred replied with a crooked, self-conscious smile. He was pleased to have his adult status recognized, but also certain he did not deserve it. The Lord of Rochester was the same age as the king, and the two had known each other almost since birth. They went right to drinking and feasting and reveling in any stories that anyhone in attendance could remember concerning the two of them. But the reunion was a short one, and in only two days, Alfred stood in front of the hall and watched the king's banners trail behind him until the soldiers were out of sight. It was the first time Alfred had found himself out of the company of his brothers in over two years, and he was relieved as well as afraid, and perpetually grateful for Wihtred's constant presence.

"My lord," the Lord of Rochester turned his kind face toward Alfred. "Will you be eager to get to the monastery, or may we entertain you here for some time?"

"No." Alfred looked to Wihtred and Wulfheard. "We will go immediately."

The horses were prepared in minutes, and Alfred was back in his saddle, this time leading the procession with Lord Rochester at his left, and Wulfheard on his right-hand side. Wihtred trailed behind with the aspiring squires that Aethelbert had assigned to him, and several servants of the Rochester household, who traveled with their master even though the monastery was less than an hour's ride from the hall.

The Rochester monastery was a squat, angry looking building made of magnificently large gray bricks. There were no windows, and the walls were as thick as Alfred was tall, but the quiet peacefulness of the interior was welcoming, and candlelight filled the main room, where men with shaved heads were bent over, either reading, copying, or binding books. The smell of leather, vellum, and ink mingled with the smells of straw, peat, and people, and the pungent aroma was thick and familiar.

The men were modestly attired in un-dyed fabrics, and Bishop Wihtred, who always wore a simple monk's habit, blended with the brothers instantly. One among them was dressed finer than the rest, and wore a rosary with a large, jewel-encrusted crucifix hanging around his neck. He came to the door to meet them.

"My lord," he bowed to Alfred. "I am Abbot Faelbric. It is a great pleasure to have you here. I think you will like our library. We have over fifty books and scrolls, and all is at your disposal. If you need anything, I am personally available to you."

Alfred had hoped for anonymity while he studied and prayed, but his fine jewels sparkled in the light of the burning wicks, and he still wore his leather armor, though all swords had been removed and sat leaning against the exterior wall of the building. Perhaps it will be different, he thought to himself, after I take my vows and shave my head.

"Over here are the refectory and the sleeping quarters." Abbot Faelbric showed them the rest of the interior space. "Of course, my lord shall have use of the abbot's cottage while we are blessed with your company."

The sleeping quarters were comprised of piles of straw and neatly hung blankets, and the refectory was a room with a large cooking pit surrounded by pots, a small table for food preparation, barrels of ale and several containters, one over-filled with milled flour. Alfred inspected everything with interest, his hands politely clasped behind his back as he looked over the supplies.

"The former abbot kept many servants," Faelbric told them. "But as you can see, we only have five now. The brothers make up the work and it is good for their souls, and their bodies as well."

"I approve of every man doing work," Alfred said. "I, too, would beg to have a responsibility while I am here, if a suitable one can be found."

"There is always enough to keep a young man busy," the abbot assured him. "If you can hold a light for several hours, you may attend me as I read in the evening. Often, I get correspondences from the king and the lords, and you may want to be aware of events."

"No," Alfred admitted. "I would not like that."

"Counting, then, in the kitchen. Brother Halfric can show you."

"Very well," Alfred agreed. "If something important arises, if my brother writes to me, of course …"

"You will be kept informed," promised the abbot.

A scuffle broke out behind him, and Alfred turned to see his new squires punching one another. Wulfheard grabbed both by the back of their tunics and pulled them apart. Alfred set his jaw and sighed, then turned back to the abbot and attempted an apologetic grimace.

They were shown to the abbot's quarters, a private building a few steps from the monastery. It contained a large bed pallet, an altar, and a few amenities. They were given time to refresh and Alfred waited until the door was closed before he turned angrily toward his two squires.

"Why are you two fighting within the walls of a monastery?" Alfred demanded to know.

"I am sorry, my lord." The younger one hung his head.

The elder glared at the other for a moment, them humbled himself as well.

Alfred did not press the issue, instead he washed his face and hands and then led his group back to the refectory for the last meal of the day. The supper was accompanied by a reading of a Biblical passage. The rest of the evening was dedicated to prayer and reflection.

Alfred prayed for his brothers, and for his kingdom, but also for himself, for his soul and for an answer to the feelings that unsettled him from within. Several times his meditation was interrupted by his squires quietly bickering. The following day they were at it again before the sun rose.

"Efrog, it is my turn to oil the leather. It is your turn to groom the horses."

"No, Uther! I groomed the horses yesterday, and you know that I already oiled the armor!"

"You just woke up!"

"I did it last night, while YOU were sleeping!"

Alfred sat up from his bed pallet and glared, quieting them instantly, but they still jerked things out of one another's hands and one elbowed the other in the ribs at breakfast.

"We need some exercise," Wulfheard told Alfred. "There is too much energy here."

"Yes, well." Alfred looked across the room where the two were fighting over a hunk of bread. "They are squires. They can have no better instruction than what you might offer them, Wulfheard."

"I have no interest in training squires," Wulfheard said.

Alfred sighed. "Must I? Again?"

"How would it look if your servants were better swordsmen than yourself, my lord?"

Alfred relented and went with Wulfheard to the outskirts of the monastery where they could draw swords without offending God. Wihtred accompanied them and sat still, watching while Wulfheard instructed the three boys together.

Uther, the elder boy, had wild blonde hair and inquisitive blue eyes. He also had a natural talent for the weapon. Efrog, who had dark hair and green eyes, had a pure determination even though he was not as good with the sword at first. Aflred envied them both. He knew that Wulfheard would have been pleased if Alfred could manage to emulate either of those qualities. They worked until Alfred was tired, then Wulfheard kept the other two at it until they could no longer lift their arms. Still, they were bickering again as soon as they turned to walk back to the monastery.

"What is the matter with the two of you?" Alfred asked. "All you ever do is fight!"

"Beg your pardon, my lord." Uther looked shamed. "He is my younger brother, and my father told me to look after him."

Efrog shook his head and his mussed, sweaty black forelock shook back and forth. "That is not what he said!"

"Enough!" Alfred growled at them. "I will hear no more of it. If you must fight with one another, you will do it far away from me."

"Yes, my lord." Uther and Efrog spoke in unison, and they kept their peace for most of the day.

In the evening, Abbot Faelbric found Alfred in the library corner of the main room.

"I am sorry to disturb you, my lord." The abbot bowed. "But we have a problem with your squires."

Alfred closed his eyes. "What could it possibly be?"

"A fight. A quarrel that damaged some property near the stable."

Alfred stood up from his place on the floor. "I will see them."

"Your man is holding them outside, my lord."

Alfred went to the courtyard, and Withred hurried after him.

Wulfheard had them by the collars of their tunics, and they both hung their head when Alfred walked up to them.

"Why?" Alfred's face flushed red. He was more frustrated than he could remember ever being. "Why?" He shook, gripping his hands into fists. "What on Earth is wrong with the two of you? I do not understand why you can not sit quietly and read!"

"We cannot read, my lord," Efrog said.

"Have not learned, is what you mean," Alfred corrected. "Then you will both learn to read. You will have lessons daily, and I will find one of the monks to teach you. Why did my brother assign you to me?" Alfred wondered out loud. "Why did he think that you would be suited for MY service?"

"Begging your pardon, my lord," said Uther. "I pleaded with him to make it so."

"WHY?"

"You were kind to me once, several years ago. It was when you first came to Southwark from the continent, you gave me a trencher of food."

"Our mother was sick," Efrog interupted. "She died the next day, but the food that Uther brought home to her … it was a great comfort."

"We are indebted to you, Lord Alfred. If you command us to learn how to read, then that is what we will do," Uther promised. "But please, do not banish us from your service."

Alfred stared at Uther but could not remember his face, nor an incident of giving him a trencher of food, but they both seemed certain.

"The fighting must stop," Alfred told them. "You must find a way. There can be no more disruption to the peaceful life of the monastery. Do you understand? We are guests here, and you represent the king."

"Yes, my lord."


	36. Chapter 36

Guthrum stood next to Halfdene on the edge of the beach where a few hardy blades of grass created an oasis of packed earth, and they were able to keep sand from getting inside their boots as they waited. The sky was light gray, but they could see sunlight piercing through the southern clouds. Guthrum was tense, having refused any strong drink the night before, and drank only weak ale that morning as well. It was the third day in a row that they had stood on the shores, waiting. One of the peasant fisherman had seen the fleet of ships, but weather blew in quickly and threw them off course.

Shouts from the hills alerted them first, then Guthrum saw the longboats, maneuvering slowly through the rough waters of the northern coast of Danelaw, once known as Northumbria. Guthrum could make out the figures of five men standing at the prow. They were dressed in shining metal, with glamorous helmets which proclaimed their wealthy status, and he knew who they were before they rowed to the shallows where the warriors jumped into the water to carry the boat, and many of Ragnar's men waded into the surf to help them.

The five important men jumped out of the boat and splashed into the shallows as well, but they did not add their shoulders to the task of carrying the boat onto land. Guthrum sized them up as they came ashore. He looked to the eldest man among them and watched his eyes as they walked up the beach and stopped in front of him.

"You are Bork of Roskilde," Guthrum informed the man. "And these fine men must be your sons?"

Two of the men in the company stepped forward, hands on the hilts of their swords and expressions worn severe.

"Asbjorn, Asgrim," Guthrum nodded at the two, who signified their individual identities by nodding in turn to his greetings. "I am Guthrum Ragnarsson, the heir of Danelaw. These are my kinsmen, Halfdene and Rothgar."

When Bork spoke, he growled his words as if he were an angry bear. "These men are my nephews," he said, indicating the other two in his party. "Erp and Gruda. They are good men."

"You are blessed with many male heirs," Guthrum informed him, matching the growling tone. "My father is in battle, or he would have been on the shore to greet you. But come inside, this is my father's hall. It is warm and full of mead."

"I have heard that you also have a brother. Is he in battle with your father as well?"

Guthrum was about to turn toward the hall and lead them up the hill, but Bork's words stopped him, and he looked the man in his eyes. He could see the Bork knew of Ivar's condition, and he was offended by the man's teasing question, but Guthrum smiled at him, and answered graciously. "Alas, Ivar was born with no bones in his legs. Walking presents a challenge, so he awaits us within."

Bork glanced at his sons and nephews, and Guthrum saw the distrust running between their eyes. They were readying themselves for trickery, but Guthrum had no tricks to show them. Stories of Ivar had reached the homeland, and many had often wondered about his ailment. Guthrum had heard that some said his ailment was only a story meant to put visitors off their guard.

Fog rolled in from the sea, and the moist spring air was thick enough to cut with one of their swords as Guthrum led them up the hill, past the assemblage of Ragnar's people, who stood gathered outside the hall. Dressed in their finery, they watched the men walk past them as if they were silent, dead souls. Every man was armed, and they all had their weaponry on high display. Sword hilts glittered in the pale sun, and heavy shadows fell over the dark iron of blunt hammers and sharp axes, which swung from their belts. No one carried a shield, however, as that would have been a clear sign of mistrust, and the entire meeting was already balanced on the edge of a blade.

The men stepped out of the biting wind and into the dim hall. "Fine beasts," Bork barked as they walked through the first room of Ragnar's hall, which held several horses and sheep. The men from the old country stopped to inspect the animals.

"This is bad luck," Bork said. "Your sheep have only two horns."

"Sheep on this island have only two horns," Guthrum told him, walking away from the animals and into the main dining area.

Ivar sat at the high table in the clean-swept hall where the smell of food permeated the air. From his seat, Ivar appeared a normal man, his withered legs hidden beneath the table and behind a decorative cloth.

The crippled man smiled and opened his arms wide. "Welcome, Norsemen!" Ivar gestured for everyone to enter.

"Everything you see here is my inheritance," Guthrum informed his guests as they entered the large main room.

A servant rushed to Guthrum's side, carrying a tray full of shining gems. Guthrum grabbed a handful of the glittering jewels and stuffed them into Bork's hand.

"I have plenty more. Take them."

Asbjorn looked at Asgrim, who nodded solemnly. They agreed that the gift was fitting.

"What about land?" Bork asked. "And trees to build boats? Do you have that?"

"There is more forest in my kingdom than in all of the old country," Guthrum bragged. "And it is filled with beasts and berries. The land here is fertile, even in winter, and the crops are strong. And all of it is mine."

Guthrum made a show of staring Bork down, letting the old man turn away before he blinked. Bork looked at his sons, and Asbjorn stepped forward.

"I am the finest with a sword in all my village," Asbjorn announced. "You are known to be a warrior. Fight me."

Guthrum snarled at the boy, who was no more than sixteen.

"We are close to the same age," Guthrum appraised him. "And we may be well-matched with blades, but I would not wish to kill the son of my guest. I would rather introduce you to the finest wine in Danelaw, and we shall see if you are as good a drinker as a swordsman."

The servants brought jeweled drinking horns, forged of silver and inscribed with Norse runes. The attention of the men was quickly diverted and Guthrum led them to the table where food was on display, and Rothgar began telling a loud and raunchy tale. The common soldiers sat at the lower tables, and on benches against the wall, drinking from less ornate horns than the men at the high table. And the peasants sat on the ground and drank from wooden mugs while every person in the hall listened to the stories.

Bork sat next to Guthrum at the high table and listened and drank, and after a few stories he started to laugh. Guthrum breathed a sigh of relief and sat back in his chair. He took a deep swallow of his wine and checked again to be sure that his guests seemed content. He would have to begin the negotiations before Bork became too drunk.

"I understand that you are taking your sons to the North Sea?" Guthrum said over the laughter and music going on around them.

"That I am. We hear there is a land there that no one has ever farmed, but it is green."

"Good luck with that. I will stay here and fight the peasants for every tract of this island. But it is brave, your voyage. How long will you look for the green land?"

"Until it is found, or until we have depleted half our supplies, then we will come back here and enjoy more of your fine hospitality." Bork raised his horn and drops of ruby liquid sloshed out. "To the men of the hall of Ragnar Lothbrok!" Bork slurred, shouting to be heard over the din. "And to his son, the heir of the hall, Guthrum, who knows how to make a very fine drink."

The men laughed, cheered and saluted Guthrum and his wine as they tore into the meat and bread that the servants brought them.

"My happiness in Danelaw is complete," Guthrum informed Bork. "For I have all that a lord could ever want in a kingdom. Everything but an heir to give it all to after my death. If I had an heir, I would truly have everything."

"I have heard that you are not yet married," Bork said, setting his drinking horn clumsily into its stand on the table. "I do not understand why that is."

Guthrum sat back in his chair, feeling confident that he had broached the subject tactfully. "I have lived on this island since I was a boy. I have heard so many men talk of the beautiful jewels of Nordic women they have known, but we have no such beauty here. The women we have are hardy, or they are peasant slaves of the conquered people. I will not marry until I have found a jewel from my homeland."

Bork sat back in his chair, a look of contemplation on his face, even though they all knew why the journey had been made. "I respect a man with high standards," he said. "And your wine and fine hall are evidence of your taste. I, too, looked for the finest in a wife. I plucked her ripe and early from the vine and she has grown more beautiful over the years. The children that she gave me are strong." He indicated his sons. "And her daughter is beautiful, too."

They had finally gotten down to the point. Guthrum chose his next words carefully, because any unintended innuendo could cause one of Bork's sons to leap out of his chair with a blade in hand.

Guthrum cleared his throat. "That kind of beauty would be most welcome here. That kind of lady would be most valuable."

Bork watched Guthrum, waiting for something to sound insulting. He was still for a moment, then he nodded his head. "And how valuable do you think she would be?"

Guthrum congratulated himself. "You are going on a voyage. You need wood and supplies. I have sail cloth and more weapons than my soldiers can carry. To show you how serious I am, I can give you this gift."

Guthrum stood up and motioned to Kollskagg, who barked a command and two slaves picked up a chest, laboring under the weight of it, and carried it to the center of the room where they lifted the lid and presented Bork with jewels and gold, which glittered in the dim light, and Bork's sons gasped at the splendor before them.

"A king's ransom," Guthrum said, keeping his face frozen in a stern expression. "That is what I would pay for the finest beauty of my homeland. This is a token, which I present to you, Bork of Roskilde, if I may be introduced to your family."

Bork glared at Guthrum for a long moment, sizing him up anew. "Guthrum of Danelaw, I will postpone my voyage to the green land, and instead my sons and I will sail back to the old country and retrieve my daughter, who is more beautiful than any story you have heard from these old men." He motioned around the hall and laughed heartily as he reached again for his horn. "You will meet my daughter and see that she is the finest jewel of our homeland."

Guthrum smiled and waved at his man to take the treasure and hand it over to Bork's servants. They drank themselves into stupors as Guthrum called for more food and more wine. The visitors remained for a month, receiving gifts of jewels, food, drink and sail cloth from Guthrum, who lavished it on them constantly throughout the stay, all of which they loaded onto their longboats and took with them when they sailed back East, and Guthrum sent word to his father that a deal had been struck.

Guthrum met his father at the entrance of the hall as the old Norseman walked in and shook the rain from his cloak. Servants rushed forth with fresh clothes and blankets, and a horn of ale, which Ragnar carried with him into the main room. The hall was filled with men who had gathered to wait for their chief's return, and they raised their horns and cheered loud when Ragnar entered. Ragnar's crew followed them and dumped shining treasures all over the floor for everyone to admire. The cheers grew louder, and shouts of individual approval filled the room.

"Ragnar was wise when he led us so far from our homeland!" Rothgar yelled out to them. "We raid and we plunder, but this land shows no sign of growing poor. There is always more. So much that we need not risk the sea raids that we once relied upon. We have planned to sail across the channel and raid the holy houses there, but now there is no need."

The men cheered for Ragnar's brilliant leadership, and one of the shouts of approval came from the high table, where Ivar was seated and had a good view of the spilled treasure. He smiled at his father and Ragnar came to his chair to lean down and hug him and pat him on the back. Ivar would never know the joy of raiding, Guthrum considered, as he followed his father to the high table and witnessed the tender reunion. He could not remember his father ever hugging him, but he was gentle and endearing with Ivar often since his legs stopped growing.

"How are you, my son?" Ragnar asked him, in a low and private tone.

"I am well, Father," Ivar responded. "And greatly pleased to see you return."

"Are you growing a beard?" Ragnar tugged at a small hair on the young man's chin, and Ivar blushed in reply.

Guthrum was relieved when his father took a seat, and he no longer felt like an intruder in their private moment. He sat down on the other side of Ragnar than his crippled brother and accepted a horn of mead as he surveyed the room. Loud calls for tales of the plundering were being shouted from several corners, and everyone turned to Rothgar for the telling, and the whole of the hall settled down to drink, eat, and shout throughout the tale.

Ragnar was wrapped up in the stories and pulled a slave girl into his lap as he drained his horn. Guthrum waited until he thought it was the right time to bring up a problem. He looked around the girl that sat in his father's lap, and Ragnar caught his eye.

"Guthrum," Ragnar acknowledged him.

Guthrum took a deep breath. "We must speak of an important matter."

"I received your message," Ragnar grinned. "Do you know how famous your bride-to-be is? I have heard great tales of her beauty, as well as her kindness. Her mother is known also as a great beauty."

"I am pleased with the bargain that I have struck." Guthrum was more than pleased with himself, he was secretly gloating that he had made the deal on his own and going out of his way not to mention that his father had shirked a duty by not speaking to Bork himself. "But I want to talk to you about my cousin."

Skewers of meat were presented to them, and Ragnar took one and shooed the slave girl away.

"What problem do you have with my nephew?" Ragnar asked.

"He has his mind set on marrying a whore, and I want you to talk him out of it."

Ragnar laughed. "What concern of it is yours or mine who Halfdene marries?"

"Do you not care about your nephew's future?"

"You want me to speak to him?"

"Yes! Please, speak with him!"

Ragnar got up, held out his horn to have it refilled, and made his way into the sea of people offering their admiration for his latest excursion. He found Halfdene among them and embraced the young man. From his vantage at the head table, Guthrum could see everyone and everything in the hall.

"Do you think father will talk him out of it?" Ivar asked.

Guthrum grumbled and waited for Ragnar to return. Food was served, songs were song, and the ale flowed freely. Ragnar forgot to go back to the head table, and ended up there only out of habit, several hours after he had walked away with so much purpose in his stride.

"What did he say?" Guthrum asked.

"They said they have to go to the cellar and get another barrel," Ragnar informed him, remembering the last thing that had been said to him.

"You are drunk." Guthrum glared at him. "What did Halfdene say about the marriage?"

"He said congratulations."

"No! I mean what did he say when you asked him about himself and marrying the whore?"

"He is quite taken with her," Ragnar slurred, peering out at the world through sleepy, drunken eyes.

"And you told him not to marry her, did you not?"

"Why would I say such a thing? He says he loves the girl. I gave him my blessing."

"What? You were supposed to convince him NOT to marry her," Guthrum fumed.

"It is what he wants, and she is carrying his child." Ragnar shrugged his shoulders. "She is pretty, too, for a Saxon whore."

"Nobody cares about that!"

"Nobody else is angry about the match." Ragnar sat back and eyed his son. "Did you lay with her, too?"

"EVERYONE has laid with her!" Guthrum made a face to show his displeasure. "If you think that I love her, or speak out of jealousy, no. He is the son of Hagar, a fearless warrior. And Rayna, a good, brave woman. He could marry a woman of noble birth. He is wasting his life."

"It is not yours to decide how Halfdene spends his life."

Guthrum was angered more by his father's cool demeanor than by the fact that he was losing the argument. He could not make anyone see reason. He stood up and huffed at his father, who smiled in return. Maddened, Guthrum turned and went to look for his cousin, to beg him one last time to reconsider.

Halfdene looked up to see his cousin approach and offered him a drinking horn and a broad smile of friendship. Halfdene had kind, gray eyes, and a face that was prone to laughter. The blonde hair of his childhood had darkened to light brown, and he was growing tall and lanky. He was smiling until he saw the pained expression on Guthrum's face.

"What is the matter?" Halfdene asked.

Guthrum took a deep breath. "My father says that he has given his blessing for you to be married."

"Yes, the chief has given permission," Halfdene smiled. "We should have a celebration for that soon enough."

"I would mourn, instead of celebrate," Guthrum told him. "If you were to marry her."

Halfdene glanced across the mead hall, and his intended smiled back at him from across the room, raising her cup in a salute. Halfdene loved her, and the mere sight of her across the room made his heart leap.

"I could never love anyone else as I love her," Halfdene said. "I am sorry that you would mourn, and at the same time ask me to rejoice at your own wedding, coming this spring."

"Just look how hard I searched to find my bride," Guthrum tried to convince him. "I think that you should seek the best possible woman before you make such a decision."

"And I think that you should KNOW your woman before you pay a chest of gold for her. What if he never returns? What if he and the treasure are swallowed by the sea serpent? You will have nothing for all your searching and paying. And tonight, I will have a warm bed with a soft woman to comfort me."

"Any woman who would let you know her before marriage is not worth marrying," Guthrum told him. "Especially if she has known countless others before you."

"That is a lie," Halfdene lowered his voice to a quietly outraged register.

"It is not a lie," Guthrum insisted. "I paid her a penny myself and put my …"

Halfdene punched him in the nose. Guthrum's size was an advantage, and Halfdene was not as quick as he had been when they were boys. In an instant, Guthrum shook off the tears that came to his eyes from taking a knuckle to the nose, and he grabbed Halfdene by the front of his shirt and punched him across the jaw.

The men around them started yelling, but no one broke up the fight. Ragnar was there in the front of the crowd, screaming out with spittle flying from his lips and settling on his beard. Guthrum could feel the pulse of the room, as if everyone's heartbeat had lined up together and struck as one, louder than the beating of a drum. He punched Halfdene over and over, knocking him to floor and assailing his ribs.

A screech like the deafening voices of the valkyries grew behind him as Halfdene's woman exploded from the crowd with a heavy metal object in her hand and struck Guthrum in the back of his head. The world flashed red, then everything went white.

The fight was over, and Guthrum woke up several hours later to find Halfdene sitting next to him, naked from the waist up and covered in purple bruises. Halfdene turned toward him when he stirred.

"Ung," Guthrum held his head, pained at his own slight movement. "I will kill that bitch if I ever see her again."

Halfdene scoffed. "She could have killed you already."

Guthrum glared at him, but he knew that it was true.

"Are you ready to give your blessing for my marriage?" Halfdene asked. "The wedding will be this Friday."

Guthrum groaned again. Halfdene smiled at him, and even with a busted lip, a bruised, swollen jaw, and a black eye, he looked truly happy. Guthrum attended the ceremony the following Friday, and he made an uneasy peace with his cousin's wife.


	37. Chapter 37

The spring thawed the ice and snow, and they all waited for the return of Bork and his sons, praying to Thor that their boats would find safe harbor. The spring seeds were sewn, and the stalks of the plants were well above ground when a runner came from the shore, shouting and waving his arms. Guthrum and Ragnar walked up to the highest point of the hill to see the Norse ships approaching.

"Is it them?" Ragnar wondered aloud.

Guthrum pointed to the shining helms the men wore. "It is."

They went down the hill and stood quietly together on the beach while they watched them dock. The rest of the house emptied onto the beach as well, and Halfdene and his heavily pregnant wife came to stand with Guthrum and Ragnar.

"It is so exciting," Ethilda smiled at the assemblage, and turned her face to the wind. She held her rounded belly with her hands, taking some of the weight off her back, but still shifted from one swollen foot to the other.

Guthrum glared at the back of her head, then looked to the boats. Two of the dragon-headed ships anchored in the shallows, but the rest were carried onto the land, and Bork and his sons walked through the surf to face them once again.

"Ragnar," Bork bowed his head. "We thank you for the hospitality of your family."

"Aye. You can put up your tent over there, and I will send you all the guards you want to watch over your women."

"With my thanks." Bork said.

"Did the gods bless your voyage?" Ragnar asked.

"It was smoother than I have ever seen the whale's road before. The worst of it was the heat of the sun with no clouds to shade us. So, we are grateful."

"We will make a sacrifice to the gods in thanks for your easy return, which is surely a sign that this match is well made," Ragnar promised.

"The women's boats will be brought in after nightfall," Bork looked over his shoulder at the two boats that remained on the waves. "And on the morrow, my wife, nieces, and daughter will be brought to your hall for introductions."

"In the meantime," Ragnar said, "let us men go inside and fill our bellies with mead. We have some fine dancers to entertain us before the respectable women arrive."

Bork smiled and clapped his host on the shoulder. He turned and laid a hand on Guthrum's shoulder by way of greeting, and Guthrum reciprocated. Guthrum then turned to Asbjorn and Asgrim.

"Brothers." Guthrum motioned them toward the hall.

They walked together and took places on benches by the fire. The men who had just arrived from the sea put their hands toward the heat of the flames and breathed in the smell and comfort of the lodge.

"Bring mead," Ragnar barked. "And send whatever Lord Bork needs for his tents, food, guards, wood for his fire. Make sure that he has it."

Halfdene hurried to attend to Ragnar's command. The young Norseman had always enjoyed favor in the eye of the chief, and his duties had increased since his marriage, which proved him a man even more than the scraggly wisps of mustache at the corners of his mouth. Halfdene ably delegated the jobs that needed doing and came back to sit down with the other important men.

The servants worked at a frantic pace, cooking food and serving mead. They had spent the day polishing the silver, hanging tapestries, weaving rugs, and cleaning walls, floors and tables. They placed the most ornate of drinking horns and dishes on display, except for the one that they brought to Ragnar, and placed in his hand.

"This horn …" Ragnar lifted the vessel. "It is called the Eye-of-Odin. See that red jewel in the center. In the right light it looks like a serpent's eye. It is very special; I have never seen another jewel like it. I drank from it when I wed your mother, and we had many sons." The old man clenched his jaw when he thought of the sons he had lost over the years, and the sons already grown from his first wife. Older than Guthrum, they were grown and gone.

Guthrum reached out and took the horn from his hand, turning it in the light until he saw a slit of gold in the red stone, which looked like the eye of a serpent. "I will drink from it also," Guthrum said. "And I will also have many sons."

Ragnar laughed and clapped him on the back. Guthrum noticed Ivar's dejected expression, but no one spoke of the fact that Ragnar's youngest son would never be able to marry. The party began, and music and song rang through the halls while mead flowed and the precious metals and jewels that the Saxon island had yielded up to them through countless raids were displayed. Dancers, Saxon slave girls, were brought out to be used as entertainment by the visitors.

Guthrum sat back and drank, watching them without participating. He could not very well take a slave in front of the faces of his new in-laws, but instead he sat as Ivar always did, above the celebration but not part of it.

Guthrum looked over at his little brother, who laughed and cheered, and sang the songs as lustily as the other men in the hall, and Guthrum smiled to himself. He took a deep swig of his mead as Rothgar stood up to tell them all a tale about the strength of Thor. Guthrum cheered. He liked to hear stories about the redheaded god, who like himself, was kissed by the flames of the sun. Guthrum had likened himself to the thunder god when he was a child, and it was easier for him to sit back without taking part in the wenching going on around him when he could listen to one of his favorite tales.

They sang and drank into the night, and in the morning the slaves brought a tub of steaming water, filled with flower petals, and placed it on the table next to Guthrum. He was bleary-eyed, and foggy headed as he leaned his face over the steam and combed the hot water and light floral scent through his dirty hair and soft, immature beard. Guthrum wore his finest armor that day, and all new-woven clothing, padded with animal fur, then he paced in front of his table while Halfdene stood vigil. Finally, there was a commotion at the door, and everyone in the room strained to see her.

The first of the procession was Bork, who entered with his sons, then came Bork's wife, who was fair, with Nordic-white hair, blue eyes and pale skin. She was tall and angular and had an ethereal beauty like a goddess or a ghost. Two guards followed the wife and two female attendants followed them, dropping flower petals on the ground to cushion the steps of their mistress.

Bork's wife and her servants stepped aside, and behind them stood a timid girl with flowers woven into her hair. Guthrum raised his eyebrows in a show of surprise that he could not hide. He had never seen anyone so stunning. Bork took Guthrum by the shoulder and turned him to the beginning of the receiving line.

"This is my wife, Thorgunna," he said. "And my nieces, Ogn and Dalla."

Guthrum nodded politely to each of the women in turn, then Bork stepped to the final lady in line.

"And this," Bork said, "is my daughter, Freygerd."

The young girl blushed, and her cheeks and lips were the color of roses. She was pale and blue-eyed like her mother, but her hair was golden instead of white, and it shined in the candlelight, and flowed freely around her shoulders.

Guthrum nodded respectfully and turned away, because he knew that he was staring. "My father," Guthrum said. "Ragnar, Chief of Danelaw."

Guthrum motioned toward his father.

"I have heard tales of you, Chief Ragnar." Thorgunna stepped forward, settling her icy-blue eyes on the elder Norseman. "You are famous in the northern lands."

Ragnar nodded his head in acknowledgement.

"My brother, Ivar," Guthrum introduced.

Thorgunna had to look down to see him. Ivar balanced his weight on a cane, and his withered legs were visible as he stood next to his father, glaring up at them as if he dared them to make a remark.

"It is well to see you again," Bork said, looking down.

"My cousin, Halfdene, you also remember."

Halfdene nodded gravely.

"And now, I invite you into my father's hall to break our fasts."

"And we accept your hospitality," Bork said, looking to Ragnar.

Thorgunna led her daughter away from the men and to the table, seating her where the servants indicated, which was next to Guthrum's chair. Freygerd trembled. She looked around the room and her golden tresses floated under her kransen; the gold circlet on her head which signified her maidenhood. Guthrum noticed that the gold of the crown matched the shade of her hair almost perfectly. She stared at everything with large blue eyes, watching most closely her mother, who sat next to her.

Ivar waddled to the table as well, and the visitors stopped what they were doing to watch him. He had to climb into his chair, where the servants had placed a small set of steps so that he could accomplish the feat with some dignity. Once seated, he looked like everyone else, and the music and conversation began to swell and fill the room.

Guthrum tried not to gaze at her, but she was like a blinding light that continued to attract his attention. She was thick, like a healthy Norse girl should be, shapely, despite her age, which he thought might be very young. His attention was diverted from her when the sound of a sword leaving its scabbard scraped through the air, and the music and talking stopped. Everyone turned to see Asgrim with his blade glinting in the weak light of the hall.

"What did you say?" Asgrim demanded. "What did you say about my sister?"

Guthrum squinted in the dim light to discover the opponent. His heart sank when he recognized his own cousin pinned against the wall.

Guthrum crossed the room in four long strides and pushed Asgrim and his blade out of the way. As Halfdene opened his mouth to thank him, Guthrum took him by the front of his shirt and punched him in the stomach hard enough to force all the air from his body. Halfdene doubled over and fell on the ground, and the men of both families laughed and cheered.

Guthrum motioned for the servants. "Give Asgrim more wine."

He took Halfdene by the arms and pushed him to a quiet corner of the room.

"You dog fucker," Halfdene grunted as his breath returned to him. "Why did you do that?"

"Do you want your blood spilled today? Do not look at the girl!"

"Because she is only for you?" Halfdene grimaced as he sat back against the wall, holding his stomach. "Because I am married only to a whore?"

"Yes, she is only for me. I PAID for her! And I told you NOT to marry the whore," Guthrum glared at him. "Do not blame me for your problems."

"Yes, go and kiss your new father's arse a little more."

Guthrum balled his fist but resisted the urge to punch Halfdene in the face.

"The girl is not even old enough to bear children," Halfdene grunted. "She will be miserable with you. You will not be able to please her, and she will kill you in your sleep."

Guthrum punched Halfdene hard enough to rock his jaw to one side. He fell back, but still maintained eye contact, glaring at his attacker.

"So that is it? That is why you have been strange for months. Ever since I struck my marriage contract and you married a whore."

"She is NOT a whore."

"No, but she WAS."

"I will kill you if you say it again." Halfdene pulled a dagger from his belt.

Guthrum shook his head and turned away, giving Halfdene a chance to stab him in the back, showing that he was not afraid. His heart trembled for a moment as he worried that Halfdene might do it, but he walked away, and his cousin remained in the dark corner.

Music and celebration continued, food was served, and ale was poured while Rothgar told stories. Guthrum made his way to his chair and sat down next to the pretty young virgin who was to be his wife.

She glanced at him through her eyelashes and he found that his hand trembled when he reached for the Eye-of-Odin. The evening was awkward, but there were no fatalities, and Guthrum considered that to be a success.

The women went back to the tent-fortress on the shore, and the men continued to drink until they passed out. Guthrum slept alone that night as he considered the girl, wondering if Halfdene was right about her age. The following morning Bork woke early and found Guthrum beside the fire, holding his head in his hands.

"My boy." Bork settled a hand on his shoulder and sat down on a stool next to him. "Shall we assemble the handsel? Her mother tells me that Freygerd finds the union acceptable, and I saw the way you looked at her, as if Thor had hit you with his hammer. She is as beautiful as her mother."

Guthrum nodded. "I would be honored to marry your daughter."

They waited until the rest of the hall was awake, then Guthrum called his father, Ivar, and Halfdene, and Bork called his sons and one of his nephews. With a proper handsel, the eight men clasped hands, standing in a circle with Guthrum and Bork opposite one another, looking each other in the eyes.

Guthrum cleared his throat. "Bork of Roskilde, all of these men are witnesses to this lawful betrothal, and with the taking of hands, you promise me, Guthrum of Danelaw, the dowry, and full legal rights to the maiden, Freygerd. This contract must be observed and is notified by the hearing of these witnesses without cunning, as a real and authorized contract."

Bork smiled. "Let the wedding be held this Friday."

All the snow in Danelaw had melted, and only a slight chill blew around on the breeze that Friday morning. Freygerd had gone with her mother and cousins to the bathhouse, where they beat their naked bodies gently with birch twigs, inducing sweating and clearing the pores. When they were each whipped from head to toe, they took turns submerging in the frosty water, then hurrying out to dry and dress.

Freygerd did not replace her kransen after the bath. It would be packed away as a gift for her own daughter when that future child reached maturity. She let the other women guide her back to the tent, and her mother sat her on a stool so that the three of them could start putting intricate braids in her hair. Freygerd was scared. She had been smitten by Guthrum, and she had been happy to please her parents, but in the past twenty-four hours the overriding emotion she felt was fear.

"The bridal crown."

Freygerd looked at her mother, who bent over a trunk and carefully lifted the crown with both hands. It was more than three feet tall, forged of silver, a crisscross of delicate thin lines in the shapes of leaves and spirals. Thorgunna smiled at her daughter and carried the crown to her with ceremony.

"Your grandmother wore this at her wedding, and I wore it when I married your father. You are my only daughter, Freygerd. After this day you will pack it away and it will wait for your own eldest daughter to wed. A fine tradition."

She placed the enormously tall, slender headpiece on Freygerd, and Ogn and Dalla helped her secure it, wrapping little braids around the base. Thorgunna wove silken cords of various bright colors through the silver lines of the crown and let them drape in the middle, and dangling crystals from the lines of the crown shimmered when Freygerd moved her head.

"It is time to have the talk with her," Dalla stated.

"Tsk," Thorgunna shook her head.

"You have to tell her!" Ogn was horrified that her cousin might be going to her wedding night without being prepared.

Thorgunna picked up a sprig of bluebells and wove them into Freygerd's braids.

"Tell me what?" Freygerd's fear was validated. "What is it?"

"It is nothing," Thorgunna shushed.

"I hope that it's SOMETHING," Ogn grinned. "Or she will be a disappointed woman when she does find out!"

Thorgunna slapped her niece, but Ogn laughed.

"Mother!" Freygerd could not look up at her mother because of the awkward balance of the crown on her head. "What are they talking about?"

"It's better that you don't know," Thorgunna promised. "The more innocent you are, the greater your morning gift will be."

"Now, Auntie," Dalla grinned mischievously. "He will know that she is a virgin."

"Her morning gift will be great, Auntie," Ogn encouraged. "He is going to be a very happy groom." She pinched Freygerd's cheek.

Freygerd was annoyed. She had been prepared for the ceremony and what was expected of a wife. She would make sure that her husband got his favorite meals, she would bear his children, and she would obey him. He would protect her, provide for her and any children she might have, and he would respect her, or she would leave him and return to her mother. But now there was some big secret that no one was going to tell her?

Dalla gave Freygerd a little wink, and the young bride felt a little better. Dalla would tell her when her mother was not around. But Thorgunna was fussing; rearranging Freygerd's hair and the silk cords that hung throughout the crown.

"Is it time yet?" Thorgunna asked.

Ogn looked outside the tent. "It looks like they're all there, on the hill."

"Oh, my darling." Thorgunna took Freygerd's hands and helped her stand up, slowly because of the crown. "You look beautiful."

They walked out of the tent together. Freygerd put a hand to the back of the crown so that she could look up the hill. Everyone from the hall was gathered. A priest stood under an archway at the crowning point of the hill, a symbol of a doorway into a new life. She had to look straight forward as they climbed, her cousins on either side and her mother behind her, holding the crown in place. It was not until they got to the peak that she could take a good look at her groom.

Guthrum was freshly washed, his hair and youthful beard still wet from the bathhouse. He smiled at her and her heart fluttered. He was so large and burly that she had been afraid of him at first, but every time he looked at her or spoke to her, it was with tenderness. She was determined that he was going to be a great husband and she was going to be the best wife. She smiled back at him and they took their places in front of the priest.

Ragnar and Bork stepped forward, each grinning with pride as they traded the dowry and the bride price in the forms of gold, silk, timber, and sailcloth. The assembled crowd cheered, then Rothgar led a fat pig to the archway. Thorgunna placed a gold dish under the pig's neck, and the priest sliced the sow's throat while calling out to the Goddess Freyja to attend and bless the union.

The beast fell and some of the blood dashed on Thorgunna's dress as she pulled the dish back and handed it over to the priest. Using a handful of reeds, the priest soaked up some blood and splattered it over the fronts and the faces of the young couple, blessing them with fertility as he chanted.

Freygerd gasped a little when the splatter of warm liquid hit her face, and she flinched back, but Guthrum did not move. He was like a stone statue, so confident and assured. Her heart beat faster for him. He seemed to have no doubts that he wanted her for his wife. She felt bad about her previous feelings of fear. Everything was going to be grand.

Guthrum turned to her, and she to him, gazing into his ice blue eyes. He pulled the sword from its scabbard on his hip and placed the tip in the ground between them. "This is the sword of my father, the first of my line to rule this land. It is a gift to you for the first-born son of our union."

Freygerd's eldest brother stepped forward, trading the sword for the one that he was carrying which he placed tip in the dirt and put the handle in his sister's open palm. "This is the sword of my father," she said. She knew she was too quiet, the audience strained to hear, but she was too choked to speak louder. "May it complete the union of our families."

Guthrum put his hand over hers, holding the sword steady and upright. His strange brother hobbled from the crowd and handed him a ring, and Guthrum placed it on the pommel of the hilt. Freygerd was staring at Ivar. She blinked at him, suddenly entertaining the thought that she might have children with such an ailment.

Guthrum cleared his throat and she looked from Ivar back to her groom. She realized how rude she had been, and how much of a spectacle she had caused as she picked up the ring from the pommel, and her own brother took the sword from them so that Guthrum could place the ring on her finger. Holding hands, the couple stood still while the priest wrapped a silk cord around their wrists. She could tell that something had changed. Guthrum was not looking her in the eye. She had offended him. She gulped.

The audience cheered, and Guthrum lifted their hands as high as Freygerd could reach so that everyone could witness the ceremonial binding.

"Bride race!" shouted someone from the crowd. The others took up the call and cheered, but Freygerd had to wait for the cord to be unbound, and then she had to kneel while her mother and cousins went through the laborious process of removing the bridal crown. She was on the verge of tears by the time her braids fell free and the heavy weight was lifted. She was worried that Guthrum was disappointed, but when she stood up and looked at him again, he was smiling at her.

"Bride race! Bride race!" the people called out.

"Are you ready?" Guthrum crouched down as if he was going to sprint down the hill.

Freygerd laughed. She had never seen him being silly before. She felt better, but that moment of doubt had made her sick to her stomach.

"Come on, Freyja!" Her brothers shouted and each one grabbed her hand and started pulling her as fast as they could run. She laughed so hard she could barely keep her feet. Guthrum could easily have outrun them, but he jogged at an easy pace, only a step ahead, and at one point ran backwards so that he could grin at her.

They reached the hall, him one step ahead. She was running so fast that she had to hit the wall with her hands to stop. She leaned, breathless, against the wall. Guthrum waited for her by the door as the crowd caught up to them and witnessed him lift her off her feet and carry her over the threshold.

The crowd cheered, and Freygerd's family got to work pouring the mead for the evening, such was their price after the bride lost the race. Freygerd sat with her husband for a moment, then got up to help pour, eager to show the entire hall what a good and dedicated wife she was going to be. She smiled at Guthrum, who sat with the other men.

"Sit, Freygerd!" Some of the women in the hall called to her. "It is time for you to be drinking!"

As part of the marriage contract, Guthrum and Freygerd sat together and shared a cup of honey mead, which was refilled several times. She was dizzy and was starting to lean on her husband as the night wore on. Guthrum stood up and helped her stand as well, and the room cheered. Freygerd groggily looked around at them. Her mother and cousins hurried to her and took her from Guthrum's arms. She was sorry for that; he was so strong and nice lean against.

"Come dearest," Thorgunna whispered.

They took her to a separate room where a large bed was fixed in the center. Dalla started unbraiding her hair and Ogn looked nervously at Thorgunna, but they had run out of time to tell the little bride about the secret. The men stomped their feet loudly as they made their way to the bed chamber.

Freygerd woke a little from her drunken stupor and looked confused. She had expected that it was finally time to sleep, but there seemed to be more ceremony, and she struggled to remember what she was supposed to do. She could not remember going over this part.

The priest entered the room, carrying her father's sword before him, point down. Guthrum followed as did his father, brother, and cousin, each carrying a lamp ahead of himself. Behind Guthrum's family was Freygerd's father and two brothers, also carrying lamps. The room had grown bright with flickering flames.

The priest chanted as he slid the sword under the bed. "May no man break the bonds of this sacred union," the priest said. "Or if he does, may he die by the edge of this sword." He blessed Guthrum, then turned to Freygerd and made a few gestures before he left the room.

Ragnar put his lamp in front of Guthrum's face, illuminating his features for the room. "I swear that this is my son, Guthrum," Ragnar announced.

Guthrum knelt on one knee as Ivar walked over and held up his lamp. "I swear that this man is my brother, Guthrum."

Ivar hobbled back and Halfdene stepped up. "I swear that this man is my cousin, Guthrum."

Bork held his lamp up in front of Freygerd and she squinted at the blinding light. "I swear this woman is my daughter, Freygerd," he announced.

Her brothers identified her as well, and then the parents left the room, leaving Freygerd's cousins to help her undress and slip into the bed in only her underdress. Guthrum's brother could not help him, but his cousin did, and Guthrum too, slipped under the covers. One by one, everyone left the room and the light depleted until there was only the light of Guthrum's lamp left. Dark shadows danced on the walls.

He turned to her in the bed, and when he spoke his voice was low and rumbling. "You must not stare so at Ivar. He is your brother now."

Freygerd blushed, remembering the moment in the ceremony when she had forgotten herself. "I will not do so in the future," she promised.

"I know that it is strange at first." He tenderly touched her shoulder, and she felt forgiven. "Everything for you is going to be a little strange. But we shall make this hall as much like your home as you wish."

He scooted closer to her and put his mouth over hers. His beard tickled, and it smelled like mead. Freygerd closed her eyes and surrendered to him, and that night she learned the secret.


	38. Chapter 38

Her parents returned to their own land, and Freygerd became the Lady of Danelaw, as Ragnar had no woman. But, she noticed, he really had lots of women. It was a very strange, overly masculine hall. Even the women of the hall were crude like men. She was no stranger to female warriors, and she had stood on the banks with her father many times and watched women seafarers unloading ships, but when they spoke to her, they were respectful. These women would belch in her face while she was speaking. They had no understanding of how best to serve her and seemed deliberately incapable of learning.

As the months wore on, her status seemed to slip through her fingers. No one did as they were told, and her husband was growing increasingly frustrated with her slim waist. She heard the whispers through the hall day after day. "Still not pregnant" "Barren" "A cold fish". She cried herself to sleep most nights.

Spring and summer slipped away, and the weather had grown cold. She had gone to the main hall with her husband, where breakfast was underway and her father-in-law and his deformed son, Ivar, were sitting at the head table. She saw their eyes go to her waist. She tried not to blush and pretended that she did not know she was the topic of everyone's conversations. But Ragnar was loud with his criticism. 

"Do you think your brother knows what he's doing?" Came the booming voice of Ragnar. And now it was Guthrum's turn to try to ignore it.

Like everyone, Freygerd knew that Ivar was a virgin, and for the past nine months of her life, she understood what that meant. She thought it was unfair that she and her husband should be criticized on fertility by a man who no woman would have. The women doubted he was capable and there was speculation that he was missing certain parts of his anatomy. Since Freygerd was afraid of Ragnar, her dislike and anger settled on Ivar more and more as her resentment grew.

Ivar, for his part, did not respond to his father's question, but looked up as Halfdene and Ethilda were entering. A nurse walked behind them carrying their eight-month-old son, and she was heavily burdened by another extended belly. Freygerd forced a smile. Ethilda was the closest thing she had to a friend, but she was intensely jealous of the Saxon woman, who was once a slave.

Halfdene greeted Guthrum heartily. He seemed the only one in the room not as grim as a funeral. But why should he be grim when he had everything that a man could want. Freygerd greeted Ethilda and took her son from the nurse so that she could dote on him. It was embarrassing to play with a baby and broadcast her own slimness, but she loved the boy like a nephew.

The loud scraping of a chair halted conversation, and they all turned to see Ragnar stand up and raise his drinking horn. "I see cracks running through this great hall."

They all turned to examine the nearest wall, but their leader was not being literal.

"My tribe is growing restless. They need a voyage, an adventure, a conquest! Perhaps I was wrong thinking that we would be happy farming this rich and promising soil. Perhaps the sedentary lifestyle is not in our blood. All the farmers remained in the Old Country; it was the adventurers who struck out with me all those summers ago!"

Rothgar stood up and shouted his approval. "RAGNAR!" he shouted. Several others bubbled in a general approval, but they were all wondering what he had decided.

Ragnar growled. "We should go and kill ourselves a king. There are a few left to the south of us. What say you?"

"Yarr!" Rothgar held up his cup in a salute. "I would go anywhere with my chief!"

"Yarr!" Ragnar laughed and took a drink, but then he got up to start putting together a voyage.

Guthrum left Freygerd's side and hurried to him. "Are you planning a raid for the spring thaw? I should go with you!"

Freygerd's heart soared at the idea of Guthrum leaving for a few months.

"You're not going anywhere until that wife of yours is as fat as a sow. And we won't be waiting. We're going tomorrow."

Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach.

"The winter is coming," Guthrum stated, perplexed. His father had to know the season.

"Right! They won't be expecting THAT, will they?"

Guthrum shook his head. He looked to Rothgar, hoping that someone would talk some sense into his father, but Ragnar was decided.

Freygerd went to bed with her husband that night amid a trove of fertility charms that various people had placed along the wall to decorate their chamber. She knew they meant well, but she intentionally kicked one as she got into bed.

"Perhaps," Guthrum pondered as they lay back on their separate sides of the pallet. "Perhaps there is an angle, or prayer, or a charm …"

She knew the problem he was trying to solve. It was the only thing that existed in her life, her own infertility. Guthrum had no bastards, like many of the men in the hall did, and she let herself entertain the silent accusation that the fault could lie with him.

"Perhaps it's this private chamber."

"It is not the chamber," she whispered.

She could feel him glaring at her in the dark of the room. He was mulling Halfdene's prediction that he would never make her happy and that one day she was going to kill him in his sleep. She also had the option of divorcing him and returning to her parents, which would be a lifelong embarrassment for him.

She worried that he was going to give up their private chamber, but she spent most of her time there, hidden away from the others. Everyone in the hall hated her, and she could not understand why. Everyone in her father's hall had loved her. Silent tears slipped from her eyes and ran into her ears.

The following day was full of ceremony as the warriors received blessings and ate the heart of freshly sacrificed ox. Guthrum and Freygerd stood together at the front of the assemblage as they were the defacto rulers of the kingdom in Ragnar's absence. Ivar, Halfdene, and Ethilda stood close by and watched the men carry their boat through the freezing cold shallows.

"You should take more than one boat!" Guthrum shouted his objection.

"Think of the songs they will sing of us!" Ragnar called out as he hopped out of the shallows and into the boat to grab an oar.

"Why is he doing this?" Ivar asked.

"I do not know." Guthrum shook his head. They stood silent and watched until the single boat was out of sight. The household waited for Guthrum's cue, and when he turned back to the mead hall, they went with him.

"Should we schedule the winter games, Guthrum?"

Freygerd could hear someone speaking to her husband, then he was overwhelmed with questions, suggestions, and problems. Some of the men were eager to capitalize on Ragnar's absence, and were trying to get permission for side raids which the chief had already vetoed.

Freygerd walked away from them. No one wanted to hear her opinion anyway. She found Ethilda sitting on the floor with Little Guthrum, whom they all referred to as Guthie.

"How are you feeling?" Freygerd spread her skirt out as she took a seat on the ground and smiled at the baby.

Ethilda sighed. "Heavy. I think it might be a girl this time. Guthie used to kick so hard, but this one has a lighter touch."

"I hope for you to have a girl, as much as I hope for Halfdene to have another boy." She brushed the fine baby hair from the little boy's eyes. Ethilda smiled at the child, then she looked sadly at Freygerd. They did not talk about it.

That evening, Freygerd dutifully poured her husband's mead, and she found his mood to be foul.

"Drink some yourself, and you won't be so scrawny," he growled as he snatched his cup.

The happy expression dashed from her face. She thought he might be upset that his father had gone on a voyage without him, and she tried to push down her pain as well as the tears that burned her eyes. She went to bed that night and laid down with her husband, praying to Freyja that she would conceive a child. Her face was wet with tears as he rolled to his side of the bed and began to snore.

Freygerd sobbed quietly, but she shook uncontrollably. She had wanted more than anything to be a successful wife. She made sure to always look pretty and speak softly. She made sure his cup was full and that his servants were in line, but there was one especially important thing that she was still missing. She placed a hand on her tight belly, which was sore from sobbing so hard. She hated herself for being such a dismal failure.

Guthrum's nights grew longer with the worries of the kingdom, and more and more often, Freygerd went to bed alone. Snow piled against the walls of the mead hall and no word from the chief reached them. Guthrum was nervously waiting for the spring thaw, but Ethilda's second child came first.

"Frey," Ethilda gasped one evening at dinner. "Get me out of here."

They abruptly left the hall, and Freygerd took her to her private chamber where Ethilda labored for more than a day. The result was the daughter Ethilda had prayed for, and the whole hall set into an air of celebration.

Little Guthie cried for his mother, but Freygerd held him during the evening's drink and feasting, and he eventually fell asleep on her shoulder. She carried him into the chamber and Ethilda woke from a half-slumber.

The air of the room was misty where the two worlds had collided that afternoon. The little baby was a testament to the gods. Tears welled in Freygerd's eyes as she laid Guthie next to his mother and sister. Ethilda felt the little drops on her arm as she cuddled the sleeping boy. Her heart went out to Freygerd, but she did not have the words needed to heal her pain.

Freygerd laid down next to the little family and slept while the celebration continued, loud and boisterous, down the hall. The baby howled in the middle of the night and Ethilda woke to nurse her. Freygerd checked on Guthie, who was still sound asleep, then she slipped out of bed in search of her husband. He was asleep on top of a table in the mead hall, surrounded by everyone else who was passed out with drink. Meanwhile, thought Freygerd, the only person who did any work today is awake with the child.

She shook her head and turned to go back to bed when a loud cracking sound announced the frozen door being pulled open. A rider with icicles in his beard and in his horse's hair, came thundering into the room.

"Lady Danelaw?"

"It is," she told him.

"I have brought news for your husband."

"You will not have word with him until morning."

"Then let me have word with you."

She built up a fire and brought him mead and some cold bread. She put a pot on the fire and the thick layer of fat that covered meat and vegetables began to liquify. When he was warm and fed, as was the social contract, the messenger relayed his tale.

"They found a boy near frozen in the snow, only an hour south. He had escaped from the village that was being burned by Chief Ragnar."

Freygerd breathed a sigh of relief to hear that her father-in-law was alive. She did not much care for ruling the kingdom.

"The boy said that Ragnar had killed the king. I have my riders at speed to find out which king, and where the chief is now. It is probably the King of East Anglia because the boy was closest to there."

Having this information finally gave Freygerd something to delight her husband, and she waited eagerly all night for him to wake so that she could tell him. She was rewarded with a smelly kiss on the lips, but they were both smiling.

Freygerd's blood stopped that month, and on Ethilda's advice, she took to her bed and stayed there, hoping that she was with child, and fearful to do anything that would destroy it. The hall celebrated even though the news was not certain, and that made Freygerd worry more. Guthrum stopped coming to her room, but also, her belly began to harden, and her breasts swelled. Amid her greatest relief, she was brought dreadful news.

A feast was going on in the main hall, but Freygerd was scared to be out of her room. She sat on the edge of the bed and leaned on a bedpost, weaving some reeds from the floor when Ethilda came in, her face a mess of distress.

"Oh, Frey," she said, shaking her head, and tears ran down her cheeks.

Freygerd's heart stopped. Was it her parents? One of her brothers?

Ethilda knelt on the floor in front of her and placed a hand on Freygerd's knee. "There's terrible news, I don't know what your husband is going to do."

Freygerd gripped her hand, too scared to ask.

Ethilda went on through her tears. "Chief Ragnar, after he killed the King of East Anglia, he was on the trail of the bastard Aelle."

They tightened their grip on one another's fingers. Freygerd stared at her as Ethilda gathered the strength to tell her. "He chased Aelle to the city of York, where Ragnar was captured and tied like an animal. They wouldn't give him a death in battle."

"He's dead?" Freygerd was sick to her stomach.

"The bastard Aelle, he … He threw the chief into a pit of vipers and let them bite him to death!"

"No!"

"The chief yelled in his moments of dying, not in pain, but in revenge. He said that the young piglets would squeal when they hear what has happened to the old boar. He swore to his murderers that his sons would avenge him."

Freygerd sat stock-still with no emotion on her face. She did not want Ethilda to see the relief she felt at the thought of her husband leaving the hall. Even though she was with child, it would be an easier time without him around. She looked to the door, where the mead hall echoed nothing but silence.

"Is he going?"

"Guthrum will go to south," Ethilda whispered. "And Halfdene will go north, and they are going to hunt him until they have his head."


	39. Chapter 39

Abbot Faelbric went to lengths to shelter Alfred from a great deal of the news on the island but he was allowed to read some of the scrolls from the years surrounding the death of King Edbert of Northumbria, whose father, Aelle the First, was also murdered by the pagans.

"They killed him in his own hall?" Alfred asked. "Where were his guards?"

"All killed." Wihtred explained.

"How did they get inside the king's hall with so many weapons?"

"They owned Edbert for years."

"What do you mean, they owned him?"

"After killing Edbert's father, the pagan king imprisoned his mother, and they put him on the throne on the condition that he always do as they tell him."

"Why did the pagan king not take the throne for himself?"

"Even pagans understand the importance of bloodlines. They could have killed Edbert when he was a child, or they could use him to hold the kingdom together and collect their taxes."

"Tell me that the King of Northumbria did not pay them taxes before they murdered him."

"Aye, your highness, he did. It was a great secret from the regular people, whose toil was payment to the wild men who ravaged their lands, but yes, King Edbert had to pay them."

"Aethelbert would never do that."

"No," Wihtred shook his head. "I think your brother would take a quick death over such a sentence."

Alfred watched the bishop for a long moment before he found his voice again. "I feel very sorry for King Edbert. I do not know which is worse, watching your father die in front of you, or having him die so far away from you that you had not seen him in years."

Wihtred laid a gentle hand on Alfred's shoulder. "Your father is seated at the right hand of the Lord."

"Of course, I know that." Alfred wiped his cheek with the back of his sleeve, then signed himself with the symbol of the cross.

"Do you wish to get back to it?" Wihtred motioned.

Alfred went back to the table in the center of the room and picked up his quill. They had the solitude of the abbot's house, where Alfred and his small entourage had lived ever since they arrived in Rochester. Alfred bent over the pages on his desk as shadows from numerous candles flickered and danced around his hand while he wrote. He had spent almost four years working on it, but he was nearly finished with a complete copy of the Holy Bible. He was taking his time, only working on it in the evenings when he had done all his other studies, and it was beautiful.

But, as diligent as Alfred was, there were some months when he did not work on his Bible at all, and even neglected his usual studies. Those were the months when the fever of translation wormed through his brain and gave him no rest. He had an idea one night to copy the Bible from Latin into Saxon, and he was unable to sleep again until he had begun. As he worked on the Book of Genesis, Alfred realized that the translation of words was difficult, as there were many Latin words that did not exist in Saxon, and Latin concepts that Alfred thought could be misconstrued by Saxon clergy if he tried to use them. He spent more time praying about the translation than writing it. Inevitably, he would grow frustrated with the project and throw away everything that he had done, going back to his studies during the day and copying the Bible verbatim at night. But, after a few months, the need to finish the translations would creep back into his mind, and Alfred would begin again.

He dipped his quill into ink, and a knock on the door stopped him. Wihtred cleared his throat and stood up, setting his own pages aside. "Allow me, my lord," the bishop said, and went to the door.

Alfred watched and, as usual, a feeling of dread filled his belly. He reminded himself that he was safe. He felt safer in Rochester Monastery than anywhere that he could remember, but the memories of his time on the continent never went away, and he often dreamed of an angry King Charles, or a sly Merovich, and part of his mind feared that they would return to his life in some manner, even though he knew that they would not. Still, relief crawled through him when Wihtred smiled at the person on the other side of the door.

"Ser Wulfheard, my lord!" Wihtred announced.

Alfred stood up, wiping his fingers on a rag to remove any excess ink. "God bless you, my friend. He be praised that you have returned safely. How is my brother?"

"The king sends his warmest regards." Wulfheard shook the rain from his cloak. "I think you have grown taller in the month that I have been away."

"Perhaps." Alfred brushed imaginary dust from the front of his tunic, and the gems on his ink-stained fingers sparkled in the dim light of the room.

Wulfheard furrowed his brow as he examined Alfred. "And taller than Bishop Wihtred already."

Alfred grinned at Wihtred, who smiled in his usual good-natured way, not appearing at all upset about becoming shorter than his young charge.

"Come to the fire." Alfred gestured to the hearth, where he, Wulfheard, and Wihtred sat down together.

Since Alfred had become a ward of the monastery, his only interaction with the outside world was sending Wulfheard to court on regular occasions to gather news. It was through Wulfheard that he had heard about the death of King Edmund of East Anglia, and about the birth of Aethelred's son, who was named Aethelhelm. Within the protected walls of the dorms and chapel of Rochester, life was structured and predictable. Nestled into the seclusion of the abbot's chamber, Alfred enjoyed a privacy known to very few on the island.

"Tell me." Alfred warmed his hands over the hearth fire. "What have they to say in court?"

"There is news."

Uther brought squares of peat and built up the hearth while Efrog retrieved goblets and a flask of weak wine. Efrog came to Alfred first, but Alfred waved him toward Wulfheard. The old knight took his cup and held it while the squire filled it for him, and Alfred waited eagerly for the news.

"The pagan king who killed Edmund in East Anglia has himself been killed. The deed was done by the rebel lord, Aelle, of Northumbria. The good news is that the evil king is slain, but in retaliation, his son has burned down the City of York. Aelle has fled, and the invaders chase at his heels like dogs. So is the word at court."

"We must pray for the people of York." Alfred bowed his head and closed his eyes.

"Of course," Wulfheard agreed. "I am sure that the entire monastery is at that task just now."

"Has the abbot called a mass?" Alfred's adolescent voice cracked when he spoke.

"I gave this news to the abbot upon my arrival," Wulfheard said. "I believe that he was calling the brothers together when I came out here to see you."

"Why was I not called as well?"

"My lord, I do not …"

"He will not let me wear a monk's habit," Alfred complained. "He holds prayers as if they were secret meetings, and he does not tell me about these special assemblages!"

"You are not a monk," Wulfheard reminded.

"But I WILL be!" Alfred could feel his face redden. He was often angry, but as always, he had to hide his feelings and remain emotionless. It was a lonely way to live, and Alfred looked forward to the eventual anonymity that would be his when he shaved his head and would finally be allowed to don a habit of plain, drab cloth. "I am nearly kept a prisoner. What else am I not being told? And why do you give Abbot Faelbric the news that you carry before you see me?" Alfred wanted to know. "Why am I the last to know everything? Does the abbot wish to keep me ignorant? Answer me!"

"The truth is that the abbot knew about York before my arrival. And no, I believe that he did not want the news to reach you, my lord." Wulfheard lowered his voice, and his steely eyes softened as he spoke. "There have been many things from which Abbot Faelbric has wished to shelter you."

"Like the martyrdom of Kind Edmund?" Alfred shuddered as he signed himself with the cross. The murder of a king was the sign of a world gone mad.

"Yes. And I may say," Wulfheard continued, "that the abbot has not forgiven me for giving you the details of the late king's death."

"Does he believe that I am a child?" Alfred fumed. "That I am not worthy enough, or intelligent enough to be told the truth?"

"While I am sure that is not the case," Wulfheard said. "I cannot claim to know what the abbot thinks."

Alfred stood up and walked to the window, where he was almost tall enough to rest his chin on the sill.

"There is more."

Alfred looked back over his shoulder. "What is it?"

"The king is coming to Rochester."

"My brother is coming here?" Alfred turned all the way around to give Wulfheard his full attention again. "Is he coming this winter?"

"He will arrive after the Candlemas celebration," Wulfheard said.

"Did you tell Faelbric?"

"The abbot does not know. So there, then. Now you have a secret over him."

Alfred was ashamed of the seed of pleasure that he got from besting the abbot, but it had often seemed to Alfred that Faelbric enjoyed his own superiorities. When Alfred complained about his treatment, Wihtred insisted that the abbot was only following rules. Alfred grumbled inward, and prayed for patience and understanding, but he found it difficult.

Candlemas could not come and go fast enough for Alfred's liking. News of the king's eminent arrival reached the abbot without any help from Alfred and Wulfheard, and the monastery was prepared for the day.

Alfred was summoned to the hall, so he donned his leather armor, sat astride a white stallion, and turned his horse toward the town. Abbot Faelbric insisted that Wihtred remain at the monastery, so Alfred set out with Wulfheard riding at his right hand and his two squires just behind them.

Alfred looked over his shoulder at Wihtred, who stood with Abbot Faelbric, praying for Alfred's safe journey. They rode to Rochester Hall and met the lord there, who was also mounted, standing in front of the city gates, watching the horizon. The road from Canterbury to Rochester was as perfectly straight as the eye could detect. Deep ditches dipped off each side of the road and made it passable even in the deepest snow fall.

Alfred brought his horse to stand next to the lord's, and they scouted the landscape together. Alfred saw them first, then he heard Lord Rochester catch his breath, and knew that the old man had seen them, too. A moment after he spotted the darkness on top of a distant hill, the snake of a procession slid through the cold, white landscape. Alfred had expected to see a small retinue, but the procession kept coming and coming. The lead horses entered the woods and filtered in at their stately speed while still more riders darkened the far horizon.

The first rider broke through the trees and charged along the road toward him. Alfred recognized Aethelred. The rest of the riders came through the trees at a steady trot, and Alfred rode forward with Wulfheard and Lord Rochester to greet them, Aethelred first.

The prince met them with a smile. "It is good to see you well, little brother."

Alfred nodded, and then looked to the king, who came up behind Aethelred. Theobald rode close behind him, followed by the vanguard.

"Alfred," smiled the king. "How fare your studies?"

"Quite agreeable, your highness," Alfred answered. "Please, follow me to the hall."

Alfred turned his horse and led them to Rochester Hall, but as he was turning, he glanced over the king's shoulder at the amazing number of men his brother had brought.

"Your highness," Alfred marveled. "This looks like a war party."

Aethelbert did not answer, and Alfred felt a rock forming in the pit of his stomach. He looked over the expanse of well-armed soldiers and realized that it could be nothing else.

There were too many men to fit inside the hall, so only the highest-ranking men went in, while the others made do with outbuildings and tents. Inside the hall, the lady had organized the servants in a line, ready with anything that the king and his men might need. Candles illuminated their faces, and large fires of peat burned for warmth.

Alfred went to the main hearth with his two brothers as well as the men who never left their sides; Theobald and Gwald. Wulfheard, likewise, stayed close to Alfred, and there were several others that Alfred did not know. They took a seat and Alfred watched the king's face intently, waiting for answers to the questions that were boiling inside him.

"The world is changing," King Aethelbert said, as he looked over the assemblage of men. "Another pope has been called home by the Lord, and now Pope Adrian the Second calls for our fealty. However, we can send not even an envoy to represent us in Rome, because of the commotion in the North. If you have not yet heard, the pagans have killed another Northumbrian king. God rest King Ecgwerth." Aethelbert paused to cross himself.

A scoff from Theobald interrupted the silence. Aethelbert glared at him, and he was still. Alfred furrowed his brow, and instinctively looked for Wihtred to explain, but then he remembered that the bishop was back at the monastery.

King Aethelbert continued his speech. "The pagans have burned the City of York and taken over the vale. Aelle is on the run, to Ireland, probably. Our great enemy coils like a snake ready to strike. We have received a call for help from King Burgred, our ally and our kinsman as well. Pagan armies gather at his northern border, and our brothers in the middle kingdom need us."

"We will crush them!" Aethelred shouted. "And stop them in Mercia, before they reach Wessex!"

Alfred startled at his brother's sudden interjection, and Aethelred's loud voice filled the hall for a moment. Everyone looked at Aethelbert, waiting for his approval.

"Their movements within the northern kingdom are unknown," Aethelbert continued. "But we do know that they are mobilizing close to Nottingham with armies more than doubling what they had when my brother sat on the throne."

There was a moment of silence as the men around the fire crossed themselves and bowed their heads at the mention of their former king.

"This is the largest incursion we have ever seen," King Aethelbert said. "They are no longer satisfied with the North. Even our southern-most outposts are not safe. Lord Rochester, I need you to gather your forces and come with me. I am taking provisions and men to northern Mercia. Alfred." Aethelbert looked levelly at him. "You are to come with me there."

Alfred had never rebelled against anyone in his life, but he was flabbergasted by the decree. "Your highness … to a battle? I –"

Aethelbert turned away from him. "This is not a matter over which you have any choice, Alfred."

"But I have lived my entire life in preparation for monastic vows." Alfred shook his head in confusion. "I cannot attend a battle. I have made promises to God. You will damn my eternal soul."

Aethelbert was losing patience. "Alfred, God made you a royal son before you made any promises, and God above all knows what it means to be a prince."

"Aethelbert …"

"Further," Aethelbert informed him in a reprimanding tone. "When I take you north, Bishop Wihtred will remain here in Rochester. You are no longer grooming to be a prince of the church, so you will not need his advice."

"But, he … he is my favorite, Aethelbert." Alfred objected, feeling that everything he had ever known was being ripped away from him in one, fatal pull. "How can I leave him?"

"You will have Ser Wulfheard to tutor you."

"Yes, but …"

"No more complaints, little brother." Aethelbert insisted. "You will pack your things at the monastery, Wulfheard will tell you what is necessary, and you will come back here tomorrow before noon. Then we will leave for Nottingham."


	40. Chapter 40

Wind swept over the white landscape, shaking loose snow from the branches of dormant trees and evergreens. Most of the people were wise enough to take refuge from the weather, and little hovels boasted the smoke of smoldering hearth fires. But one element of human braved the outdoors, atop the backs of strong, well-bred horses, covered in supple fabrics and skins.

The cold winter morning sent a chill through the riders as Alfred gathered his reins and clucked to his horse. The young lord felt more alone than he ever had in his life, despite being surrounded by guards, pages, servants, and priests. His jewels sparkled in the pale sunlight and shone like beacons among the caravan of men. Armor and weaponry jingled, and the horses grunted under the weight of the men who carried heavy iron swords. Alfred carried a sword as well, with a jeweled handle that matched the diamonds that adorned his neck and chest. His wrists and his fingers were also bejeweled but covered by soft leather gloves. Even Alfred's saddle was set with diamonds.

Squires carried banners of the House of Wessex, which flapped in the breeze and snapped close to his head. Alfred was nauseous as the horse swayed beneath him. He wanted to look back. He wanted to turn his horse around and gallop back, back to the monastery that had been his home for nearly four years. Instead, he kept his face front, and his back straight, aware that eyes were always on him. He could not, however, hide how sick he was getting.

"You are looking a bit green, little brother," observed the king.

"It is nothing," Alfred insisted.

Theobald trotted his horse alongside Alfred's. "That is a ... white horse," Theobald stated.

"It is." Alfred glared at his cousin, hearing a tone of judgement in his voice.

"Pardon my saying so, my lord, but it might not be the best choice to ride to war."

"It is a fine choice." Alfred looked straight ahead, trying not to show how bad he felt.

"As you say." Theobald clucked his tongue, which sounded like a shaming toward Alfred, and he glared at his cousin's back as the ealdorman rode forward to scout the road ahead.

"He is right." Prince Aethelred sidled up close and spoke low. "No warrior rides a white horse!"

Alfred put his head down because he barely had the strength to speak. "White is pure, like the pope's cassock. Anyway, I am supposed to be a cleric, not a warrior."

"Hm." Aethelred smirked.

Alfred ignored him as his horse jounced over the lowlands of Wessex. He thought about his immediate future with every step that his horse took, bringing him closer to the pagans who killed kings, closer to a place where he would witness killing and possibly be forced to kill. A queasy feeling rolled through his insides and started working its way up through his body. He pulled his horse to a halt and clambered out of the saddle, barely getting down in time to get sick on the path.

King Aethelbert stopped the procession and turned his horse. "Was your drink too strong last night?"

Theobald laughed, and Aethelred joined in teasing, but after the third time Alfred scurried off his horse, no one was laughing. It appeared that he was truly ill, and they started to glance at one another with concern. Wulfheard dismounted to help the weak and weary lord back into his saddle.

Alfred resisted the urge to cry, though he was truly miserable. He longed for the warm fires of the monastery and for the bishop who had been his caretaker for as long as his memory spanned. Alfred could not remember a time when Bishop Wihtred had not been with him, teaching him about faith and Christ, grooming him for a future that he had so eagerly embraced. He was pale and shaking when he took his saddle for the last time. The cold, dry air was his only solace as his belly was too empty to offer anything more than dry heaves, and his muscles ached from retching.

"Is he afraid of battle?" Alfred could hear one of the men whisper.

The royal procession arrived at the great bridge of Lundene early in the day. The wind had swept away the usual fog of the city and Alfred had a clear view of the giant wooden bridge. Another, more ancient bridge, of Roman construction, was only a furlong further down the river, but they went over the more recent, wooden structure, which arched at the center and then gradually led them back down to the opposite river bank, officially setting them in the middle kingdom of Mercia.

The heavily traveled roadways cleared before them, and their horses tramped through the puddles of human and animal waste that littered the street. They marched through the town and out the northern gate, up the sloping rampart of earth to where the second wall of defense for the city had been piled. As they reached the plateau they had to dismount and walk their horses down the steep outer side.

The sun peeked above them as they made their way north of the city, leaving the stench of people and the smell of the river behind them. They traveled through the day, taking their midday meal in their saddles. When the stars began to peep out in the darkening sky, Aethelbert finally called for them to stop.

There was nowhere off the road for them to camp and all around them stretched the deep, cold fields of Mercia. Alfred looked out at the vast white landscape which spread forever in all directions. The road was Roman and was built up above the natural landscape and then paved. They dismounted and Alfred stood, holding the reigns while Ser Wulfheard built a fire for him, then he sat down in front of the little blaze while Wulfheard set up a tent behind him, and the squires unsaddled his horse and covered the beast with a blanket.

Alfred's brothers had their own fires in front of him, and behind him was a long caravan of small fires with a few huddled figures over each one. Wind whipped through the blazes and ruffled their hair, and Alfred shivered in front of his tent.

Wulfheard skewered meat and put it over the fire, but Alfred's stomach was still churning. The two squires skewered their own dinners and thrust them into the fire, Efrog scorching his meat and burned the skewer. Alfred cringed as the boy began devouring the half-burned, half-raw meat. The four of them were relatively alone, and the loneliness stretched across the nothing that was on either side of the road as the sun melted into the horizon, and black inked the sky above them. The meat sizzled over the fire, and Wulfheard inspected it in the gathering dark.

"Here you are, lord." Wulfheard held out the sizzling meat for him. "Cooked all the way through."

Alfred held his stomach. "I do not think that I have the strength."

"Without food," Wulfheard insisted, "you will never have strength."

Alfred took the skewer and held it.

"Many people are going to bed starving," Wulfheard reminded him. "You should be grateful."

"I know," Alfred sighed.

He nibbled at the meat, then lay down to sleep with his head in the tent and his feet close to the fire. The following morning, they still had another full day to travel and Alfred did not want to eat breakfast, but Wulfheard insisted.

"You need meat, Alfred." Wulfheard forced a hunk of boiled bacon into his hand.

Alfred choked down a few bites before they took their saddles for the morning, and then he prayed to God to give him strength. His stomach was sore inside and out, but he managed the rest of the ride without having to scramble off his horse.

Near exhaustion by nightfall, Alfred did not even see the large form of the Hall of Nottingham until he heard the horses in front of him tromping over the bridge. The evening sky grew purple above them as they marched their horses into the courtyard, where King Burgred waited with a party of nobles.

"Keep your back straight," Aethelbert muttered under his breath.

The company dismounted and Alfred walked behind his brothers to greet the reception line. He kept his chin up, despite his fatigue.

"The great Lord be praised. It is good to see you, King Aethelbert." King Burgred sported a shaggy beard that was turning white with age and worry. "How has your journey treated you?"

"Tolerable, your highness," replied King Aethelbert. "And who are these fine men?"

Burgred turned to the receiving line and introduced Aethelbert to his generals. The Mercian king greeted Prince Aethelred warmly, then he turned to Alfred. "Lord Alfred," he became formal. "I have not seen you in several winters. You have grown."

"Thank you for your hospitality, your highness. Your hall will be a welcome retreat from the Downs."

Burgred ushered them in out of the cold and they all took seats by the hearth. "The pagans have killed Ecgwerth of York and razed the city in retribution. Aelle has left the island all together and leaves us with the rage of the provoked pagans."

There were no fun tales or heroic legends told around the fire that night. When the kings finally laid down to sleep, Alfred's head was ringing with the talk of war. He closed his eyes to the dark interior of the hall, and in his mind, he knelt at an alter with Wihtred, where they said their nightly prayers, and prayed for triumph over their enemies.

Dawn filled the hall with light and Burgred got the house up and moving early. Crowds of villagers filled the streets and dove for safety when the line of heavily armored horses came clattering out of the courtyard and made their way through the town. As they reached the northern border of Nottingham, Alfred fell into a fast gallop behind his brothers and King Burgred. Merging behind them were two armies, both flying colorful banners bearing the crests of either Wessex or Mercia as they charged through the woods.

He led them through the forest and into the camp, which was muddy, frozen, and miserable. Men were sleeping in tents and horses were outside. Gaunt faces looked up to see them as they marched through, churning the soil with the hooves of their mounts.

"Why are they not fed?" Alfred mumbled. Wulfheard hushed him.

A light snow began to fall as Burgred brought them to a tent at the top of a hill. Alfred dismounted behind his brothers and followed them inside where a large fire was being set at the entrance. Alfred accepted a cup of wine from a servant, sat on a pillow, and leaned back against a rug-covered log.

"Your highness." Burgred motioned to Aethelbert, and the two kings walked outside alone.

Theobald followed them to the door and stood like a forlorn hound that wanted to follow his master while Aethelred paced back and forth in front of Alfred.

"Do you think the battle will start now?" Aethelred asked.

"Sit down and be still," Theobald commanded.

Aethelred stopped, glared daggers into their cousin's back, then responded. "I shall speak if I wish."

Theobald turned from the door and gave Aethelred a stern expression. Aethelred stood defiant for a moment, then took a seat beside Alfred and resentfully accepted his own cup of wine. When they were quiet, Alfred could hear a steady drum beat across the valley.

"Are those pagan war drums?" Alfred whispered in the thick silence of the room.

"They bait us," Theobald grumbled while he watched intently out the door.

Alfred could see the kings talking on the other side of the fire. They were making sweeping arm gestures in the direction of the valley, the prechosen battle ground. Theobald's anxiety was almost palpable until the kings returned to the tent, and servants started carrying in several courses for dinner. Alfred thought about the soldiers' thin faces that he had seen on their march in. He wanted to ask about them, but Wulfheard had already shushed him once.

"King Aethelbert and I will go on the morrow to the middle of the valley," Burgred announced.

Alfred looked at Aethelbert, who was looking down and listening intently, but he already knew the plan.

"We will demand to speak with a representative of the pagans," Burgred said. "And we will see if they can be persuaded to leave without the need for battle. We have amassed several armies. The hope is that they will see this and not wish to fight."

"Do you not think they, too, have been amassing this whole time?" Alfred spoke without thinking.

Burgred glared at him, and Aethelbert shook his head sternly, so Alfred sat back and waited for someone else to speak, but nobody asked for specifics.

When they laid down to sleep, Alfred prayed for the kings, for the soldiers, and for a quick resolution to the problem of the pagans. Most people, Alfred noticed, slept before he did and woke after he did. He laid awake for a long time, and in the middle of the night he got up to relieve himself, get a snack, and settle in for midnight prayers. When he went back to his bed, he slept a little, and had only a few hours of boredom before the sun rose, and the late winter morning arrived.

Alfred followed his brother into the cold, gray morning. White vapor coiled around their boots and entwined in the legs and tails of the horses. Drummers took up a slow toll when the kings stepped outside the tent. The drumbeat was slower than the beating of a heart, and it made the moment feel surreal as Alfred exhaled and saw his breath hang frozen in front of him for a moment.

"Lord." Uther and Efrog hurried over with his armor and helped Alfred dress and mount his horse. The drums continued their steady beat.

The kings got into their saddles, and Theobald and three other knights clustered around them. Alfred halted his horse in line with Aethelred, and they stood together to watch as the kings began to move forward at a stately pace. The horses reached the bottom of the ridge and pushed through knee-high, pristine snow, leaving a deep trench behind them. Alfred watched from the top of the ridge, and he saw that, across the valley, a hulking giant on a tall plow horse was lumbering between the trees.

Aethelred leaned forward in his saddle, as if he could strain enough to hear what was being said. The giant red-haired pagan got unnervingly close to the kings before he finally stopped his horse. The words that passed between them were lost in distance and wind, but the anger on the pagan's raised voice could be heard echoing up the hill. When the Saxon kings turned away and started to hurry back, Alfred's heart dropped.

"Archers!" Burgred was shouting as they crossed the field.

On the other side of the valley, the trees shook. The kings had yet to reach the incline on their side before the enemy army was breaking their cover, moving at a fast pace despite having to leap through snow.

"Archers!"

The word floated across the valley and a bugle sounded. Archers hurried to the front with a thudding of feet. Aethelred's mount danced and skittered, and Alfred's beast called out. The horses were trained for battle, and they were getting excited. Alfred held his reigns tight as the whooshing sound of two hundred arrows roared above them.

The kings clamored over the top of the ridge and hurried to get behind the archers just as the plow horse in the middle of the valley cried out. The arrows fell short of the advancing wave, but they hit the spot where the leaders had spoken.

Alfred stared at the form of the prone black horse in the white snow, surrounded by red splashes of blood. The pagan stood beside the dead animal, holding a thick round shield above his head as if he were merely blocking rain. Alfred's blood ran cold. How could they defeat an enemy who had no fear?

As the wave of arrows finished its volley, the pagan lowered his shield. He started walking through the snow toward their army while the fighters from the woods caught up with him. Burgred called again for archers.

For all his experience, education, and travel, and after all the reading he had done about war, Alfred could not have prepared his soul for the sight of twenty people falling dead in the sparkling snow before him. Slaughtered, like beasts. One moment fully alive, and in an instant, they had been removed without ever the chance of knowing Christ. His heart broke.

Most of the arrows fell around the enemy and punctured only the snow, leaving little pock marks on the white landscape where raven-feathered shafts were visible.

"Flanks!" Burgred called out.

The foot soldiers on the right and left flank rushed in to crush the advancing battalion. The sounds of war cries and the screams of agony filled the valley. Horses and shields clashed, and the clang of metal rang. A second wave of pagans broke through the trees and rushed into the fray.

Burgred sent more foot soldiers forward and they crashed into the front of the battle. The snow was no longer white, Alfred saw, but looked more the color of the dusty red landscape of Northern Italy. Alfred surveyed grimly the blood-stained ground, noting that some of the bodies were hidden in piles of snow, making legs and arms appear dismembered. Then he realized that some of them were dismembered.

Alfred felt sick. His horse was dancing beneath him, but he had it under control. Meanwhile, Aethelred's horse jerked its reins right out of his hands and Gwald caught hold of the bridle.

"I can handle my own horse!" Aethelred admonished him.

Gwald gave him the reins, which he would not have been able to reach on his own, and Aethelred snatched them, which caused his horse to rear and leap. Alfred's horse tossed its head and cried out for the battle, and he held it back, veering from Aethelred's wild mount. The bugle called for the cavalry, and the rushing of horses was more than Aethelred's stallion could resist. It pulled its bridle and took its own head, dashing down the hill with the others. Gwald dashed after his charge without a thought. Alfred's horse called out and Wulfheard had to walk his mount in a circle to keep it from following.

"Fool!" Alfred cursed his brother, remembering a time in the woods when Aethelred's bravado was more hinderance than help. "Wulfheard, you must retrieve him!"

"I won't leave your side," Wulfheard insisted.

"You will get him, or I will," Alfred swore. He was yelling to be heard over the madness that was swelling all around them. The sounds of the battle rang up the hill and the gurgle of the dying settled in their ears.

Wulfheard could see that he was serious, and he started his horse down the slippery slope, which was slick from so many going before him. Alfred moved his nervous horse to the edge and watched, trying to find Aethelred among the melees.

"There!" Efrog was pointing, but all at the valley floor was madness.

Alfred saw the original pagan, still marching with his arrow filled shield, getting closer and closer … to Wulfheard. Ser Wulfheard had found the prince and was putting his horse between Aethelred and the battle. Gwald was busy trying to get Aethelred out as Wulfheard's long sword rang against the axe of the red-haired wild man of the North.

"Wulfheard." Alfred prayed as the axe hooked the longsword and pulled the old knight from his saddle.

Wulfheard went down in the snow with a thud. Alfred opened his mouth to scream but the axe came down before he could make a noise. The raw color of the ground was doused in the brightest red Alfred had ever seen.

It was impossible. Time had to come to a halt. But the battle continued to tumble on in front of him and the body of Wulfheard was obscured by the insanity of war. The pagan was after Aethelred now, his fine horse and gleaming armor making him a prime target. Pagans were overwhelming the Saxon army on the field, and they were starting to climb the hillside. Alfred stood above them, watching their advance in horror.

The axe swung through the air and caught the hind leg of Gwald's horse, which screamed out in agony and went down. Aethelred had a clear path to escape, but he was turning around to look for his bodyguard.

Alfred kicked his horse and it was all the encouragement the beast needed to leap forward. They were airborne for several heartbeats, and Alfred could see Aethelred and Gwald getting out of harm's way just as the massive pagan was swinging his bloody axe where they had stood.

Alfred's horse had jumped from the ridge, and then they had to fall down the hill, and when they hit, they hit hard. Halfway down the hill, the horse found its feet and Alfred was jolted from the saddle. The white horse ran on, but Alfred hit the ground with a sharp pain accompanied by a loud crack, which set off a fire at the back of his head. Then the rest of his body landed, and the air was knocked out of his lungs in a painful exhale of breath.

He tried to move, but he could not command his legs. He looked up to see the pagan with the blood-dripping axe walking toward him.


	41. Chapter 41

Guthrum heard the drums, finally, responding from the other side of the valley. He sat atop his plow horse and had a good view of the masses of warriors among the bare tree branches. Dressed in their weapons and painted with wode, the blue, frightening faces stared back at him.

"We have burned York!" Guthrum shouted. "We have slaughtered King Ecgwerth! And we will kill that bastard, Aelle!" Silence was his response. "My father said with his dying breath that the little piglets would squeal when they hear what has been done to the old boar, so let them hear me today! Kill every Saxon and burn every structure! There will be no where left to hide!" His face reddened and puckered with emotion. His voice raised and spit flew onto his beard. "We will burn fires so hot and so high that Ragnar will feel their warmth all the way down in the sleet castle. If this bastard is going to deny my father a seat in Valhalla, then I will send the light of Midgard all the way to Neiflheim!"

Tears burned at his eyes and anger boiled in his belly. There were many among his warriors who had asked to attack sooner, to kill the peasants one kingdom at a time. But Guthrum would soon have a son, the grandson of Ragnar Lothbrok. And that son would inherit a whole island, not just a few kingdoms.

The woods resounded with cheers, going back further than Guthrum could see, even from his height. He turned his horse away from them and motioned for his generals to keep the warriors among the trees.

"Someone should go with you, Chief!"

Guthrum turned in his saddle as his horse lumbered forth into the snowy valley. "Imagine the songs they will sing of me!"

A group of riders came down the steep incline on the other side of the valley, flashing with jewels and highly polished armor, rattling with weapons as they came to the center of the valley and stopped, waiting for Guthrum's slower horse to make the trek.

The plow horse had a tough mouth and continued walking even after Guthrum had sawed back on the reigns. As a result, Burgred's horse had to take a step back, and it tossed its head in complaint, and nipped at the plow horse's neck. The large horse crowded them, head down and indifferent. When it stopped, it left Guthrum sitting head and shoulders higher than Aethelbert, and close enough that the two men could have reached out and touched one another.

Burgred, the fat king from the middle kingdom, spoke first. "Why have you come to our border, Northerner? We have made no quarrel with you."

"Where is the bastard? Where is Aelle?" Guthrum demanded to know. "You will turn him over to me and I will rip him into a thousand pieces!"

"There is no Aelle here," Burgred informed him.

Guthrum looked each man in the eye, studying their faces in turn to investigate them. He would never forget the face of the bastard who had literally slipped out of his hands. His glower ended on Aethelbert, the young king from the wealthy southern nation.

"Wessex," Guthrum growled. He turned back to Burgred. "I know he's with you. You are the closest kingdom for him to cower within."

"He has left the island, from what I've heard," Theobald chimed in. "Fled to the continent, or to Ireland. He is not here."

"When I need your lies." Guthrum turned his icy glare on the less-important Saxon. "I will command it from you. Speak again, and you will feel the bite of my sword." He turned back to Burgred with an expression of one who had tasted something bitter. "You have one hour to bring me the pretender. I will not ask you again."

"You will have to be reasonable with your demands," Burgred insisted. "We can give you some gold and …"

"Will that bring my father back from the pit of snakes where he was killed?" His muscles bunched and his face reddened. "Give me that which I seek, or I will burn your kingdoms as well!"

Burgred was stoic. They stared into one another's eyes long enough to realize that neither was going to budge. The King of Mercia backed his horse a few steps and then turned away from Guthrum, fearing a dagger in the back.

Aethelbert followed. Theobald put himself between his king and the pagan, and the other guards did the same as they hurried out of the valley. Behind Guthrum, a battle cry. "YARRRRRR!" came a booming shout from the trees.

They kicked their horses into a gallop and Burgred started yelling for archers before they could hear him. He shouted the command over and over as they reached the base of the incline and dug their heels into their horses' flanks to make them climb quickly.

The first wave of arrows took down Guthrum's horse. He could hear the command and he had dismounted and raised his shield above his head before it was needed. The horse cried out and dropped to the ground. He looked down at the writhing body where arrow wounds gushed blood.

"YARRRRRRR!" the first wave of his army, made up of Saxon slaves, ran past him.

Guthrum could hear the arrows coming again and in an instant, they darkened the sky. He put up his shield and crouched to brace himself, and they came down on him like hail. Some of the slaves around him fell bleeding in the snow as Guthrum got up and marched forward. He walked with purpose through a garden of arrow shafts and a few bleeding bodies, some still and some weeping in the deep snow.

The Saxons roared from either side of their ridge as they sent foot soldiers from the left and right to pour in and kill him from both sides. The surge of the battle came to Guthrum in a sudden whoosh, and then he was fighting on all sides. His sword in one hand, axe in the other, he smashed into enemy weapons and sliced enemy flesh. He loved the rush of battle, which made his heart pulse ice into his veins. The flurry of movement all around him, the warm splatter of blood, the squish under his blade, all helped him forget that his father was trapped in the underworld with Hel, a woman beautiful from the waist up, but a rotting corpse for the rest of her.

"YYAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRR!" Guthrum destroyed them and called for more.

They sent in the horses, and the ground reverberated with their hooves. Guthrum flashed back to his childhood as he stood in front of a wall of horses that were bearing down on him. He started slashing at the hated beasts. One horse went down in front of him, and Guthrum dispatched the rider. Others were forced to go around the bodies, and he lashed out at their sides as they passed, wounding them on their way into the thick of the battle.

In the skirmish, a glint of red sparkle caught Guthrum's eye, and he saw someone in gleaming armor, inset with rubies, who also had a well-armed servant helping him onto his horse. Guthrum thought about the ransom he could demand before he would break the agreement and shove this Saxon prince into a pit of venomous snakes. He wondered what it had looked like when his father died. Did he cry out in a poisoned delirium? Did his body swell and slowly suffocate him?

Guthrum was suddenly surrounded by a burst of his own countrymen, painted blue and crying out as they raced forward, blades in the air, clearing Guthrum's way to the base of the hill where he could reach the nobleman. He started toward the hapless prince, but an old knight, a man so old he could have been the brother of the All-Father, ran his horse in front of Guthrum and blocked his path.

"By my sword, Pagan!" The old man heaved a massive, gleaming longsword from the sheath on his back and swung it downward at Guthrum's head. It was heavy enough to break bones, but it was also unwieldy, and Guthrum managed to step back as the blade cut the air.

The mounted knight recoiled for another strike, but Guthrum heaved his axe and caught the steel, hooking it so fast that he was able to pull the weapon out of old man's hand, and that was enough to unbalance him.

Wulfheard realized that he was falling. His longsword was lost, so he grabbed the hilt of his short sword and had it halfway from the scabbard before he hit the ground with tremendous force. His horse reared, and lashed out, kicking Guthrum in the ribs with a loud crack.

Guthrum screamed out under the pain of a broken rib and swung his sword with a mighty growl. The weapon embedded deep into the horse's neck, and a flood of hot horse blood washed over the two. Guthrum raised his axe in the air and brought it down in the middle of the old man's skull. Blood spurted in a crimson cascade, washing over Guthrum and everything else around him.

The whole battleground had shifted, and he lunged to try and catch the prince, but he got away. A new target presented itself in the form of a screaming white horse. Guthrum looked up the hill, raising his axe to defend from another horse kick, and he saw the rainbow glint of diamonds as they caught the sun's rays. A second noble did half the work for him and unseated himself. The white horse's momentum pushed it into the battle at the base of the hill, but the rider lay on the ground bleeding profusely from the back of the head.

The Saxon looked up at him, terror in his deep blue eyes. He was young, Guthrum noted, not yet bearded, and looked a lot like the King of Wessex. The young noble held up a hand in defense and started talking. Guthrum recognized some rushed Saxon, and then Latin words.

A squire cried out from the top of the ridge, but Guthrum's warriors had swarmed the hillside and were pushing the enemy back. A deafening clash of weaponry arose around them. Guthrum stood over Alfred, using his helmet to reflect the sun's weak glare into his victim's eyes. Alfred kept his defensive hand raised and peered between his fingers as he panted from the pain of the head wound, which was gushing out on the dark, flat rocks of the muddy hillside.

Guthrum spoke the native tongue with a deep, guttural accent. "Do you belong to Wessex, Saxon?"

Alfred put a hand to the back of his head. "I am not a king. I am a man of God."

"You have one god." Guthrum scoffed. "We have dozens."

"There is only one true God." Alfred tried not to wither under the pain as he pressed his hand against the bleeding wound. "And his son, Jesus Christ, is a warrior for our side."

"Your brother killed my uncle," Guthrum informed him. "A brother for an uncle seems a fair revenge. Draw your sword and I will grant you a death in combat."

Alfred winced, holding one hand up in front of him and the other pressed against the back of his head. "It is more godly for a monk to lay down his life than to pick up a sword."

Guthrum scoffed. "You do not look like a monk."

Alfred dropped his defensive hand and stared at the bloody pagan with the dripping axe, and his entire life flashed before his eyes.

Aethelbert's voice floated through his mind. "God made you the son of a king, Alfred. and He above all knows what it is to be a prince." "You are no monk," Wulfheard had told him. He heard King Charles wrath like static in the back of his brain. Wisigard's smile floated through his vision. The peaks of the alps and the wonders of Rome flashed before his eyes. And then there was a figure so large that it eclipsed the sun.

Alfred could see his father's silhouette on the deck of a ship in the bright, sunny Roman harbor. King Aethelwulf, with his braided beard and a crown set with flashing rubies, knelt in front of him. Alfred could remember his face with crystal clarity. Every hair of his father's beard, the dirt of the sea encrusted in the wrinkles of his face, the dark blue ring of his iris as he looked his son in the eye.

"You carry the honor of your people with this blade."

Carloman had told him that his father did not care for him. Then he thought about punching Carloman in the face. Alfred took his gory hand from the sticky wound and reached for the hilt of his sword, gripping it as he had his seax night after night in the chamber in Paris while tears poured from his eyes and he tried to remember his father.

Guthrum grinned at him and readied the axe, still wet with Wulfheard's blood. Alfred struggled to get his feet under him, and winced with pain as he sat up, shifting the throbbing of his skull. With a shaking hand, Alfred began to pull the sword from his belt, and with a pleading expression, he looked up at his doom.

Guthrum confidently hefted the weight of his axe, half hoping the noble would survive the maiming so that he could get a ransom from Wessex. He did not expect the reflexes of a cornered viper, but suddenly Alfred's sword was not only raised, but swiped in a wide arc and connected with his broken rib. As Alfred swung, the grip slipped in his hand, and he hit Guthrum with the flat side of his sword, but it was enough to elicit a howl of pain. The incline was steep, and the hefty push knocked Guthrum several paces backward.

Alfred remembered every lesson Wulfheard had ever taught him. He fixed the grip on his handle and rushed forward to press his advantage. He only needed the strength to raise the sword, and then the weight of it falling would do the rest. Guthrum held up the wooden handle of his axe to protect himself. The handle managed to stop the blade, but with a loud crack it became two pieces in Guthrum's hands. With arms shaking from the force of the blow, he staggered backwards again. Alfred swung the blade around and got it back over his head before Guthrum could recover his feet.

As Guthrum knew, and Alfred learned, all battles have their own ebb and flow. They crash against land formations, and can be moved by unpredictable forces, and when the tide turns, everyone on the field felt as if a cold wind had blown down their backs.

The power of the Saxons' horses overwhelmed the Norsemen, who came pouring back over the side, rushing down the hill and into the blood-soaked valley in a panicked retreat. Uther and Efrog broke loose from their individual battles and came screaming down the hill behind their lord, blades in the air.

Guthrum dropped his broken axe. The horses lined up along the ridge in a formidable wall that need only slide in his direction and he would be trampled to death, which was his worst recurring nightmare. He turned with the rest of the men, glaring back at the young noble who stood on the battered hillside. Alfred lowered his sword and pointed it menacingly at Guthrum. His arms trembled to hold the massive weight outright, but the sword was stock still as the two locked eyes.

Guthrum turned and raced for the safety of the woods, ribs screaming in pain, and his anger growing with each labored step. He worried about being ridden down, but as he raced into the valley, he realized that the Saxons were not giving chase. Guthrum stopped running and turned back to see Lord Alfred scrambling back up the hill. The hatred he felt for his father's murder collided with the anger he felt about the young Saxon tricking him on the hillside. Saxons were not supposed to understand cunning. They were not told the secrets of Loki. Yet, that dough-faced, un-bearded, skinny brat feigned enervation, and then lashed out as fast as a snake, fooling him and taking the advantage.

Stopping to pull a bow and arrow from a nearby dead Saxon slave, Guthrum pointed it at a glimmering figure on the edge of the ledge. Momentarily isolated from the crowd, the tall, slender noble was haloed by the weak southern sun. Guthrum drew the bow.

A celebratory air filled the hillside, and the people were cheering and jeering at the backs of their enemies. Alfred reached the top of the ledge, and a whooshing sound zipped past his ear, a sound that was almost absorbed by the laughter of the kings, sitting atop their horses above him.

Alfred merely blinked, and when he looked at Aethelbert again, an arrow stuck in his throat, all the way down to its feathers, nearly passing through him. When Aethelbert opened his mouth, a spray of scarlet flew out, and covered his tunic with crimson. Aethelbert's eyes locked on Alfred's, but he could not speak, he could only spew bright red blood.

Theobald's horse shoved Alfred to the ground as its rider rushed to the king.

"Put him on his side," Gwald told Theobald as he jumped from his horse's back. "Put no pressure on the shaft."

The arrow point stuck out of the back of his neck, just under his helmet. Aethelbert grabbed at the arrow, choking, and Gwald pulled his hand away. He spit blood, unable to take a breath.

Alfred crawled to him and grabbed his shoulders. "Aethelbert," he gasped. "I am so sorry!"

Aethelbert reached a hand up and touched Alfred's face, leaving a smear of blood across his cheek. Then his hand dropped away, and he convulsed, as if his spirit were being unwillingly torn from his body.

"Aethelbert!" Alfred called to him, gripping his shoulder. "No!" he cried. "Do not leave us, your highness!" Peace fell over Aethelbert. "NO!" Alfred cried. "Dear God, please, no!"

He had forgotten his headache. The world lost all its brightness in that moment, and a gray cloud fell over the sky, covering the sun. Alfred looked up at Aethelred, who looked terrified. They were both numb all over, as if the snow had crept right into their veins. One by one, Gwald, Uther, Efrog, and all the other men who surrounded the dead king, lifted their eyes, and looked at Aethelred.

Theobald knelt between the two brothers and put a hand on each of their shoulders. "I swear to you," he whispered, and the crowd of shocked people were silent while the snow carried his voice, crisp and flat. "I will hunt down the pagan lord and I will bring you his head. I swear this to you, Aethelred … my king."

Aethelred had tears in his eyes, but they did not spill. "I cannot be the king," he whispered.

"This is not a matter over which you have any choice," Alfred murmured softly. "God has decided your destiny."

Frightened and grieving, Aethelred gripped Alfred's hand. "I need you to help me. You are now the Prince of Wessex."

9


End file.
